pun

As for my lord-lieutenant the Earl of Mungo-merry, I am sure he be-wales my misfortune; and it would move him to stand by, when the carpenter (while my friends grieve and make an odd splutter) nails up my coffin. I will make a short affidavi-t, that if he makes my epitaph, I will take it for a great honour; and it is a plentiful subject. His excellency may say, that the art of punning is dead with Tom. Tom has taken all puns away with him, Omne tulit Tom.-May his excellency long live tenant to the Queen in Ireland! We never Herberd so good a governor before. Sure he mun-go-merry home, that has made a kingdom so happy. I hear my friends design to publish a collection of my puns. Now I do confess, I have let many a pun go, which did never pungo: therefore, the world must read the bad as well as the good. Virgil has long foretold it: Punica mala leges. I have had several forebodings that I should soon die; I have late been often at committees, where I have sat de die in diem. I conversed much with the usher of the black rod: I saw his medals; and woe is me dull soul, not to consider they are but dead mens faces stamped over and over by the living, which will shortly be my condition.

Tell Sir Andrew Fountain, I ran clear to the bottom, and wish he may be a late a river where I am going. He used to brook compliments. May his sand be long a running; not quick sand, like mine! Bid him avoid poring upon monuments and books; which is in reality but running among rocks and shelves, to stop his course. May his waters never be troubled with mud or gravel, nor stopped by any grinding stone! May his friends be all true trouts, and his enemies laid as flat as flounders! I look upon him as the most fluent of his race; therefore let

him not despond. I foresee his black rod will advance to a pike, and destroy all our ills.

But I am going; my wind in lungs is turning to a winding sheet. The thoughts of a pall begin to apall me. Life is but a vapour, car elle vapour la moindre cause. Farewell: I have lived ad amicorum fastidium, and now behold how fast I di

um !

Here his breath failed him, and he expired. There are some false spellings here and there: but they must be pardoned in a dying man.

A

LETTER TO MRS SUSANNAH NEVILLE. *

MADAM,

June 24, 1732.

I WILL not trouble you with any grave tophicks, lest I should discurmode you; but rather write in a farmiliar and jocosious way.

You must know then, I was the other night at Mrs Tattle's, and Mrs Rattle came in to drink some jocklit with us, upon which they fell into a nargiment about the best musicioners in town. At last, Rattle told Tattle, that she did not know the difrence between a song and a tympany. They were going to defer the matter to me; but I said that, when people disputed, it was my way always to stand muter. You full would have thought they were both intosticated with liquor, if you had seen them so of outrageousness. However, Mrs Tattle, as being a very timbersome woman, yielded to Rattle, and there was an end of the disputement. I wonder you do not honour me sometimes with your company. If I myself be no introducement, my garden, which has a fine ruval look, ought to be one. My Tommy would be glad to see you before he goes for England, and so would I; for I am resolved to take the tower of London before I return. We intend to go to Norfolk or Suffolk, to see a clergyman, a near cousin of ours. They say that he is an admiral

This letter is fictitious, and was written by Dr Sheridan.-D. S.

good man, and very hospital in his own house. I am determ'd, when this vege is over, never to set my foot in a stage-coach again; for the jolting of it has put my blood into such a firmament, that I have been in an ego ever since, and have lost my nappetite to such a degree that I have not eaten a mansion of bread put all together these six weeks past. They allow me to eat nothing at night but blanchius manshius, which has made a perfect notomy of me; and my spirits are so extorted, that I am in a perfect litergy; for which I am resolved to take some rubrick, although the doctors advise me to drink burgomy. And what do you think? when I went to my cellar for a flask, I found that my servants had imbellished it all: for which I am resolved to give them some hippocockeny to bring it up again. I fear that I have been too turbulent in this long and tedious crawl; which I hope you will excuse from, your very humble servant,

MARY HOWE.

CONSULTATION

OF FOUR PHYSICIANS UPON A LORD THAT WAS DYING.

First Doctor.

Is his Honor sick? Præ lætus felis pulse. It do es beat veris loto de.

Second Doctor. No notis as qui cassi e ver fel tu metri it. Inde edit is as fastas an alarum, ora fire bellat nite.

Third Doctor. It is veri hei!

Fourth Doctor. Noto contra dictu in my juge mentitis veri loto de. Itis as orto maladi, sum callet. [Here e ver id octo reti resto a par lori na mel an coli post ure.]

First Doctor. It is a me gri mas I opi ne.

First Doctor. Is his honour sick? Pray let us feel his pulse. It does beat very slow to day.

Second Doctor. No, no, 'tis as quick as I ever felt; you may try it. Indeed, it is as fast as an alarum, or a fire bell at night. Third Doctor. It is very high.

Fourth Doctor. Not to contradict you, in my judgment it is very slow to-day. It is a sort of malady, some call it.-[Here every doctor retires to a parlour in a melancholy posture.] 1st D. It is a megrim as I opine.

As Swift did not partake of the usual amusements of the world, for recreation, he indulged himself in various sports and whims of fancy. Among others he was fond of a new species of composition, which consisted all of Latin words, but by allowing for false spelling, and running the words into each other, the sentences would contain good sense in English. The present editor has added full versions of these nugæ, since, if worth being printed at all, they are worthy also of being interpreted.