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I feel so strange, so comical, and queer;
My pulse beats high, my blood and bowels yearn,
I melt with love, with ecstacy I burn!
Indulge me, Peter, in this pious qualm,
And quicken my conversion with a psalm.

Pet. Such soft sensations do the saints inherit, Who feel the inward workings of the spirit; O! would our Sisters Tabitha and Ruth, With all the crop-ear'd brethren of the truth, Assembled hither for their soul's diversion, Could see thy sudden, wonderful conversion.

Da. 0, name not Tabby! debonnaire and sleek, I tremble at the roses in her cheek! And Ruth is buxom, though devout and shy, A righteous heart, but yet a wicked eye!

Pet. Now hear me, brother Damon; hear, I

My late conversion and the Lord be wi' thee!
Some forty years ago, or nearly that,
I was a forward, pert, and graceless brat,
My tongue was bold, and saucy were my looks,
I lov'd my play much better than my

books. On Sabbath-days, with Thomas Stokes and Green



I pitch'd the quoit, shot sparrows in a bean-field;
At playhouse riots I was quite the thing,
When Ben, or Buckhorse * fought, I kept the ring.
My father would have given pounds by twenties,
To bind me to some honest trade apprentice,
To crush my vicious habits in their growth,
But this I spurn’d, and answer'd with an oath ;
For, ere the down appear’d upon my chin,
was, though young


years, mature in sin. But fate, in spite of all my follies past, Resolv'd to turn my stubborn heart at last : Stokes was transported in his tender years, And Greenfield died with “ Cotton in his ears;" + I just escap'd the same untimely check, And turn'd King's Evidence, to save my neck! I grew devout, apply'd myself to trade, And groan'd, and sang, and prophesy'd, and pray’d, Repriev'd, affronted, coax’d:—to sum up all In simple language-I receiv'd a call. To crown the whole, I took a second wife, The Son of David lov’d the married life;

* For an account of this interesting character, see the European Magazine for October, 1804.

+ It is a saying when a culprit is executed at the Old Bailey, that he dies (in reference to the last exhortations of Doctor Cotton, the pious ordinary,) “ with Cotton in his ears."

Five hundred wives had he, a noble suit !
And eke four hundred concubines to boot:
Allowing half the story to be true,
Peter might surely venture upon two!
Grown old at last, unmindful of reproach,
I feast, grow fat, kiss wife, and keep my coach ;
No care have I about my latter end,
But live secure, while Satan is my


Da. Right deftly hast thou tun'd thy reed, my

Peter, And told thy tale in mighty pleasant metre; But time is on the wing, I must be gone, What says your watch? for mine is gone to pawn.


Pet. A mighty lucky thought--assure as Heaven,
It only wants ten minutes to eleven!
Collection Sunday to begin so late !
Do thou, good Damon, come and hold the plate ;
But first, since thus our foolish quarrel ends,
Let's drink a pot of porter, and be friends.



-Quod optanti divům promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultro.


SCARCE had Aurora chas'd the shades of night,
And ting'd the mountains with returning light,
Blythe Chanticleer proclaim'd the rising morn,
And woodlands echo'd to the winding horn;
Scarce had the dextrous housemaid twirl'd her

Or slip-shod 'prentice swept his master's shop;
Or nymphs and shepherds left their dark retreats
To scream their various cries thro’ London streets;
When lo! a City dame, Belinda hight,
Whom pleasing thoughts kept wakeful half the

Rose from her downy pillow, blythe and gay,
With anxious heart, impatient for the day.
Already was the toilet's task begun,
And eagerly she watch'd the ling’ring sun.
For now the time had come, so long desir’d,
When fair Belinda, gorgeously attir'd,
In ostrich feather, wig, and diamond brooch,
Should take her station in the City Coach ;

For Goddess Chance, to make the people stare, Had pitch'd upon her husband for a May'r.

In ancient times, when Britain's laurels grew, The rival City had her Poet too; Then Laureat Settle, in harmonious lays, Immortaliz’d her feasts and public days; Her grand parades majestic roll'd along, Supreme in ode, and mock-heroic song; And while King Charles's praise was Dryden's care, He found as many virtues in the May’r.

But times are chang'd; and many a tuneful strain The civic bounty courts, but courts in vainE'en Virgil, who in British cap and gown, Now humbly asks the favour of the town, Shall find, perhaps, no market for his rhymes, That pleas'd Mæcenas, in Augustan times ; And, forc'd by Dulness to his native home, Without a patron travel back to Rome.

Now walk'd Belinda forth, superbly sheen, “She look'd a goddess, and she mov'd a queen!" To make her blooming, Art its colours lent, And nought she lack'd that Fashion could invent. Rare articles for show, and few for use, Hat à-la-mode, and mantle à-la-russe;

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