70 THE SIMPLE TRUTH MOST SIMPLY TOLD. Ar'n't you a murderer?' gravely Susan cries; 'It was no snake, I verily believe, And killed with envy every beauteous belle.' • Heavens! to this Spider!-what a witching tongue Well go about thy business-go along; All animals indeed their food must get: And hear me-shouldst thou look with longing eyes, 'At any time on young fat luscious flies, • I'll drive the little rascals to thy net. 'Lord! then how blind I've been to form and feature: I think a Spider, now, a comely creature!' THE SIMPLE TRUTH MOST SIMPLY TOLD. AN EPIGRAM, HONEST Teague, when return'd from a trip to the North. For to Lapland 't was said he had been; Was questioned- If during his cold wintry birth, Whether any Rein Deer he had seen?” When,' says he, by my sowle, as truth I regard, 'I was station'd there almost a year; And sometimes, in the summer, it rain'd very hard, 'But I never once saw it rain Deer?' THE JEWESS AND HER SON. (PINDAR.) ECONOMY's a very useful broom; Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room That squeezes e'en the little guts of mice, Good in a subject--better in a king; Yet pushed too far, it dulls each finer feeling, Most easily inclined to make folks mean ; Inclines them, too, to villany to lean, To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing. E'en when the heart should only think of grief, It creeps into the bosom like a thief, And swallows up the affections all so mild-- Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son, Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat, High from the gallery, ere the play begun, Dead in a minute as a nit: In short he broke his pretty Hebrew neck; The mother was distracted, raving, wild; Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child; Afflicted every heart with grief around, Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past, And moderately calm th' hysteric blast, She cast about her eyes in thought profound; And being with a saving knowledge blessed, She thus the play-house manager addressed: 'Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad, 'Dat meet mishfartin here so bad 'Sher, I muss baf de shilling back, you know, 'Ass Moses haf nat see de show.' EPSOM RACES. COME, Madam Muse, new nib thy pen, Curricles, coaches, chaises, gigs, The young, the old, the brown, the fair, The mania spreads, from Berkley-square, Miss Drugget cries-- My sweet papa, In order to go safe and slow, I doates upon the country now; How sweet the wernal breezes! Old Drugget shook his cranium wise, EPSOM RACES. What, tho' old Dobbin's lost both eyes, You cruel man, you're more severe, Than Chinese, Turk, or Persian; The cit found all resistance nought, The chaise was hir'd, provisions bought, Through ev'ry village that they went, Old Drugget laid on many a blow, At length he turn'd to spousy dear, Reaching, at last, the crowded course, The cit exclaim'd- Confound this din, H 73 This cursed racing would begin, But when the racing list he reads, Sure there was never such a scene, Ent'ring a booth, a dextrous cheat, Tempted by play's inviting call, A guinea bright he ventures; And views the circling of the ball, On expectation's tenters. Breathless with joy, he gain'd his chaise, And cry'd the guinea's won!' 6 But who can paint his grief, amaze-- With dreadful ire his bosom burn'd, Away went Drugget and his dear, Away went ham and chicken; |