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AND THE RAZOR-SELLER.

But yet there are a mercenary crew,
Who value fame, no more than an old shoe;
Provided, for their daubs they get a sale,

Just like the man-but, stay-I'll tell the tale;
A fellow, in a market town,

Most musical, cry'd razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seem'd wond'rous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,

As ev'ry man would buy, with cash and sense,

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A country Bumpkin the great offer heard,
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness, the eighteen pence he paid;
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said:
This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.'

"No matter, if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;

'It certainly will be a monstrous prize.' So home the clown, with his good fortune, wentSmiling-in heart and soul, content

And quickly soap'd himself, to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered, from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain, to grub;
Just like a hedger cutting furze.

'Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he try'd-
All were impostors! Ah! Hodge sigh'd,

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I wish my eighteen pence were in my purse!'

In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, and

swore;

Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd and made wry faces;

And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er :

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MIDAS'S SECOND MISTAKE,

His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds.
Hodge in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat, that sold the goods-
'Razors!-(a damn'd, confounded dog!)
'Not fit to scrape a hog!'

Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and begun-
Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

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That people flay themselves out of their lives! You rascal-for an hour have I been grubbing, "Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, 'With razors, just like oyster-knives.

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Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,

To cry up razors, that can't shave!

Friend,' quoth the razor-man, 'I'm not a knave; 'As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul I never thought,

That they would shave.'

'Not think, they'd shave!' quoth Hodge with wond'ring eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

• What were they made for, then? you dog! he cries: 'Made!" quoth the fellow with a smile,

to sell!

MIDAS'S SECOND MISTAKE.

ONCE an old country squaretoes, to fopp'ry a foe, And disgusted alike at a crop and a beau,

Being church-warden made, was in office so strict, That there scarce was a coat, but a hole in't he'd

pick:

MIDAS'S SECOND MISTAKE.

Infringements, encroachments, and trespasses scouting;

And from straddling the tomb-stones the boys daily routing:

At last made a justice, corruption to purge,

His worship became both a nuisance and scourge: When a poor needy neighbour, who kept a milch

ass,

Which he often turn'd into the church-yard for grass,

And with long cars and tail o'er the graves did he stray,

While perchance, now and then, at by-standers he'd bray:

And once when old Midas was passing along,
He set up his pipes at his brother, ding dong;
At which his puff'd pride was so stung to the quick
That he glar'd at the browser as stern as Old Nick;
And when he got home, for the sexton he sent,
Who, with this doughty threat to the ass-keeper
went;

That again should his beast the church-warden assail,

Or be seen in the church-yard-he'd cut off his tail; When the owner replied-Sure his worship but

jeers;

But should he dock donky-I'll cut off his ears.' When no sooner the answer was brought to him back,

But he summon'd before him the clown in a crack; And he said-Thou vile varlet, how comes it to pass,

That thou dar'st for to threaten to crop a just-ass?
Thou cut off my ears?-Make his mittimus, clerk;
I'll make an example of this precious spark`:
But first reach me down the black act-he shall see
That, the next Lent Assizes, he'll swing on a tree.'

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THE NEW CASTLE APOTHECARY.

'I zwing on a tree!-and for what?' replies Hob, How the dickens came zuch a strange freak in your knob ?

I woanly but zaid, if my ass met your sheers,
And you cut off his tail, that I'd cut off his ears;
Vor as you hate long tails, as the mark of a fop,
I'd ha' don't 'cause I knaugh that you don't like
a crop.'

At this subtle rejoinder, his worship struck dumb,
Found his proud overbearing was quite overcome:
So the ass sav'd his tail by a quibble so clever,
And the justice's ears are now longer than ever.

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

(COLMAN, JR.)

A MAN, in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle;
Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe,
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness, of a brother;
So (many a suff'ring Patient saith,)

Tho' the Apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Esculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne;
No man could better gild a pill ;
Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed ;
Or give a clyster.

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

Of occupations these were quantum suff;
Yet, still he thought the list not long enough;
And therefore Midwifery he choose to pin to't.
This balanced things:-for if he hurl'd

A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by bringing others in to't. His fame, full six miles round the country ran ; In short, in reputation he was solus:

All the old women call'd him ‘a fine man!”
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, tho' in trade,

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter) Read works of fancy, it is said;

And cultivated the Belles Letters.

And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthysic?
Of Poetry tho' Patron-God,

Appollo patronises Physic.

Bolus loved verse; and took so much delight in't That his prescriptions he resolv'd to write in't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass

Of writing the directions, on his labels, In dapper couplets,-like Gay's Fables; Or, rather like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary's verse!-and where's the treason?
"Tis simply honest dealing;-not a crime ;-
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient lying at death's door,
Some three miles from the town-it might be four;
To whom, one evening. Bolus sent an article,
In Pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical:

And, on the label of the stuff,

He wrote this verse;

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