The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

90
And moderately calm th' hysteric blast,
She cast about her eyes in thought profound
And being with a saving knowledge blessed,
She thus the playhouse manager addressed:
"Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad,
Dat meet mishfartin here so bad--
Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know,
Ass Moses haf not see de show."
But as for Avarice, 'tis the very devil;
The fount, alas! of every evil:
The cancer of the heart--the worst of ills:
Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives;
No flower of virtue near it lives:
Like aconite where'er it spreads, it kills.
In every soil behold the poison spring!
Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.
The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread,
So says that gentle satirist Squire Pope;
And Peterborough's Earl upon this head,
Affords us little room to hope,
That what the Twitnam bard avowed,
Might not be readily allowed.
THE COUNTBY LASSES.
PETER PINDAR.
Peter lasheth the Ladies.--He turneth Story-teller.--Peter grieveth.
Although the ladies with such beauty blaze,
They very frequently my passion raise--
Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of TASTE.
Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd,
I heard some damsels FASHIONABLY loud;
And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.
"Oh! the dear man!" cried one, "look! here's a bonnet!