And thus they miss'd and thus they hit,
And now they struck and now they parried,
And some lay in of full-grown wit,

While others of a pun miscarried.

'Twas one of those facetious nights
That Grammont gave this forfeit ring
For breaking grave conundrum rites,
Or punning ill, or-some such thing;

From whence it can be fairly trac'd
Through many a branch and many a bough,
From twig to twig, until it grac'd
The snowy hand that wears it now.

All this I'll prove, and then-to you
Oh Tunbridge! and your springs ironical,
I swear by H-thc-te's eye of blue
To dedicate th' important chronicle.

Long may your ancient inmates give

Their mantles to your modern lodgers, And Charles's loves in H-the-te live, And Charles's bards revive in Rogers!

T T

Let no pedantic fools be there,

For ever be those fops abolish'd, With heads as wooden as thy ware,

And, Heaven knows! not half so polish'd.

But still receive the mild, the gay,
The few, who know the rare delight
Of reading Grammont every day,
And acting Grammont every night!

ΤΟ

NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp,

The lip, that's so scented by roses,
Oh! never must smell of the lamp.

Old Cloe, whose withering kisses

Have long set the loves at defiance, Now, done with the science of blisses, May fly to the blisses of science!

Young Sappho, for want of employments, Alone o'er her Ovid may melt, Condemn'd but to read of enjoyments, Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for you to be buried in books-
Oh, FANNY! they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks

Read more than in millions of pages!

Astronomy finds in your eye

Better light than she studies above,
And Music must borrow your sigh
As the melody dearest to love.

In Ethics-'tis you that can check,

In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ; Oh! shew but that mole on your neck,

And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip

When to kiss and to count you endeavour; But Eloquence glows on your lip

When you swear, that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you-

A course of more exquisite science

Man never need wish to go through!

And, oh!-if a fellow like me

May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree,

My divine little Mistress of Arts!

BUT, whither have these gentle ones,
The rosy nymphs and black-eyed nuns,
With all of Cupid's wild romancing,
Led my truant brains a dancing?
Instead of wise encomiastics

Upon the Doctors and Scholastics,
Polymaths and Polyhistors,

Polyglotts and-all their sisters,

The instant I have got the whim in,

Off I fly with nuns and women,

The volume has already been so unnecessarily protracted, that I give but an extract from this Poem, and shall, for the present, suppress the notes.