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And from the days of Adam 'tis the case,
That great's the sympathy 'twixt soul and face.

'Signor Squalini,' cry'd the lord,

'The op'ra is begun, upon my word

'Mlons. signor, arid hear me—mind,

'As soon as ever you shall find

'A singer's voice above or under pitch,

'Just touch my toe, or give my arm a twitch.'

'Iss, iss, my lor, (the eunuch straight reply'd)
•' I sheet close by your lor'ship side;
'And den according to your lor'ship wish,
* I give your lor'ship elbow littel twish.'

Now to the opera, music's sounds to hear,
The old castrato and the noble peer

Proceeded—Near the orchestra they sat,
Before the portals of the singers' throats!
The critic couple musing for bad notes,

With all the keenness of a hungry cat.

Now came an out-of-tunish note

The eunuch twitch'd his lordship's coat:

Full-mouth'd at once his lordship roar'd out— 'psha!' The orchestra, amaz'd, turn round To find from whence arose the critic sound,

When, lo! they heard the lord, and saw!

The eunuch kept most slily twitching,
His frowning lordship all the while,
(Not in the cream of courtly style)
Be-dogging this poor singer, that be-bitching,
Uniting too, a host of damning pshas,
And reap'd a plenteous harvest of applause:—
Grew from that hour a lord of tuneful skill,
And tho' the eunuch's dead, remains so still.


From morn to night, from day to day,

At all times, and in ev'ry place, You scold, repeat, and sing and say,

Nor are there hopes you '1l ever cease. Forbear, my Fannia ; oh, forbear,

If your own health or ours you prize; For all mankind that hear you, swear

Your tongue's more killing than your eyes. Your tongue's a traitor to your face,

Your fame 's by your own noise obscur'd; All are distracted while they gaze,

But, if they listen, they are cur'd. Your silence would acquire more praise

Than all you say, or all you write; One look ten thousand charms displays;

Then hush! and be an angel quite.


As Quin anil Foote, one day walk'd out

To view the country round,
In merry mood, they chatting stood

Hard by the village-pound.
Foote from his poke a shilling took,

And said, I'll bet a penny,
In a short space, within this place,

I'll make this piece a guinea.
Upon the ground, within the pound,

The shilling soon was thrown;
Behold, says Foote. the thing's made out,

For there is one pound one.
I wonder not, says Quin, that thought

Should in your head be found,
Since that's the way, your debts you pay-
One shilling in the pound.
I 2


Old South, a witty churchman reckon'd,

Was preaching once to Charles the Second,

But much too serious for a court

Who at all preaching made a sport.

He soon pcrcciv'd the audience nod,

Deaf to the zealous man of God!

The doctor stopp'd ; hegan to call,

'Pray wake the carl of Lauderdale.

'My lord! why, 'tis a monstrous thing!

'You snore so loud—you'll 'wake the king.'

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Lo, to the cruel hand of fate,

My poor dear Grizzle meek-soul'd mate,

Resigns her tuneful breath— Tho' dropp'd her jaw, her lip tho' pale, And blue each harmless finger nail,

She *s beautiful in death.

As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep—

How wonderfully tame!
And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone

With all the lightning's flame.

Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite—

To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And car'd a single fig for no man,

I thought he fear'd to meet her.

Still is that voice of late so strong,
That many a sweet Capriccio sung,

And beat in sounds the spheres!
No longer must those fingers play
Britons strike home, that many a day

Have sooth'd my ravish'd ears!

Ah me! indeed I'm much inclin'd
To think I now might speak my mind,

Nor hurt her dear repose;
Nor think I now with rage she 'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,

And touch her precious nose.

Here let me philosophic pause—
How wonderful are nature's laws,


When lady's breath retires, Its fate the flaming passions share. Supported by a little air,

Like culinary fires!

'Whene'er 1 hear the bagpipe's note, Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat,

And loud instructive lungs: O Death, in her, tho' only one, Are lost a thousand charms unknown,

At least a thousand tongues.

Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh, And saw her gently closing eye,

How great was my surprise! Yet have I not with impious breath, Accus'd the hard decrees of death,

Nor blam'd the righteous skies

Why do I groan in deep despair,
Since she '11 be soon an angel fair?

Ah! why my bosom smite?
Could grief my Grizzle's life restore!
But let mc give such ravings o'er—

Whatever is, is right.

Oh, doctor! you are come too late; No more of physic's virtues prate,

That could not save my lamb: Not one more bolus shall be giv'n— Yon shall not ope her mouth by heav'n

And Grizzle's gullet cram.

Enough of bolusses, poor heart,
And pills, she took to load a cart,

Before she clos'd her eyes;
But now my word is here a law,
Zounds! with abolusin her jaw; ,

She shall not seek the skies.

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