FOR BETTER FOR WORSE.

"Nay, prithee, dear Thomas, ne'er rave thus and curse; Remember, you took me for better for worse.""

"I know it," quoth Thomas, "but then, madam, look you,— You prove, upon trial, much worse than I took you."

MULTIPLICATION.

Dick had two aunts of large estate,
While want and hunger were his fate:
These dames death took, to end his woes,
And soon two aunts to ten-ants rose.

TO "LENGTHEN OUR DAYS."

Says my doctor to me, "If you'll only confine
Your potations, good sir, to one bottle of wine,
You will lengthen your days."-So, with some little strife,
I agreed to his plan; and, by Jove! he said true;
For I drank but one bottle all yesterday through;
And a day half so long I ne'er spent in my life.

THE LATE BISHOP OF CHESTER'S CHARGE TO HIS CLERGY POETIZED.

"Hunt not, fish not, shoot not,

Dance not, fiddle not, flute not;

Be sure you have nothing to do with the Whigs,
But stay at home, and feed your pigs;

And, above all, I make it my particular desire,

That, at least once a week, you dine with the 'squire."

THE MEDICINE.

A TALE FOR THE LADIES.

Miss Molly, a fam'd toast, was fair and young,
Had wealth and charms-but, then, she had a tongue :
From morn to night th' eternal larum run,
Which often lost those hearts her eyes had won.

Sir John was smitten, and confess'd his flame,
Sigh'd out the usual time, then wed the dame;
Possess'd he thought of every joy of life,
But his dear Molly prov'd a very wife.
Excess of fondness did in time decline,
Madam lov'd money, and the knight lov'd wine:
From whence some petty discords would arise,
As you're a fool; and you are mighty wise!

Though he, and all the world, allow'd her wit,
Her voice was shrill, and rather loud than sweet.
When she begun, for hat and sword he'd call,
Then, after a faint kiss, cry, "B'y, dear Moll:
Supper and friends expect me at the Rose."
“And, there, Sir John, you'll get your usual dose!
Go, stink of smoke, and guzzle nasty wine,-
Sure, never virtuous love was us'd like mine!"

Oft as the watchful bellman march'd his round,
At a fresh bottle gay Sir John he found.
By four the knight would get his business done,
And only then reel'd off, because alone;
Full well he knew the dreadful storm to come,
But, arm'd with Bordeaux, he durst venture home.

My lady with her tongue was still prepar'd,—
She rattled loud, and he impatient heard:
“'Tis a fine hour! In a sweet pickle made!
And this, Sir John, is ev'ry day the trade.
Here I sit moping all the live-long night,
Devour'd with spleen, and stranger to delight;
Till morn sends stagg'ring home a drunken beast,
Resolv'd to break my heart as well as rest."

"Hey! Hoop! d'ye hear my damn'd obstrep'rous spouse; What, can't you find one bed about the house?

Will that perpetual clack lie never still ?

That rival to the softness of a mill!

Some couch and distant room must be my choice,
Where I may sleep uncurs'd with wife and noise.”

Long this uncomfortable life they led,

With snarling meals, and each a sep'rate bed.
To an old uncle oft she would complain,
Beg his advice, and scarce from tears refrain.
Old Wisewood smok'd the matter as it was,-
"Cheer up," cried he!" and I'll remove the cause.

"A wond'rous spring within my garden flows,
Of sov'reign virtue, chiefly to compose
Domestic jars and matrimonial strife-
The best elixir to appease man and wife ;
Strange are the effects, the qualities divine,-
'Tis water call'd, but worth its weight in wine.

If in his sullen airs Sir John should come,

Three spoonfuls take, hold in your mouth-then mum;
Smile and look pleas'd, when he shall rage and scold,
Still in your mouth the healing cordial hold;

One month this sympathetic med'cine try'd,

He'll grow a lover, you a happy bride.

But, dearest niece, keep this grand secret close,
Or ev'ry pratt'ling hussy will beg a dose."

A water-bottle's brought for her relief,-
Not Nants' would sooner cease the lady's grief:
Her busy thoughts are on the trial bent,
And, female like, impatient for th' event!

The bonny knight reels home exceeding clear,
Prepar'd for clamour and domestic war:

En'tring, he cries, "Hey! where's our thunder fled!
No hurricane! Betty's your lady dead ?"
Madam, aside, an ample mouthful takes,

Court'sies, looks kind, but not a word she speaks:

Wond'ring, he star'd, scarcely his eyes believ'd,
But found his ears agreeably deceiv'd.

"Why, how now, Molly, what's the crotchet now?"
She smiles, and answers only with a bow.

Then, clasping her about—" Why, let me die!
These night-clothes, Moll, become thee mightily!"
With that, he sigh'd, her hand began to press,
And Betty calls, her lady to undress.

"Nay, kiss me, Molly-for I am inclin'd:"
Her lace she cuts, to take him in the mind.
Thus the fond pair to bed enamour'd went,
The lady pleas'd, and the good knight content.

For many days these foud endearments pass'd.
The reconciling bottle fails at last;

'Twas used and gone, then midnight storms arose,
And looks and words the union discompose.
Her coach is order'd, and post haste she flies,
To beg her uncle for some fresh supplies;!
Transported does the strange effects relate,
Her knight's conversion, and her happy state!

Why, niece," says he, "I prithee apprehend
The water's-water, be thyself thy friend;
Such beauty would the coldest husband warm,
But your provoking tongue undoes the charm:
Be silent and complying, you'll soon find,
Sir John, without a med'cine, will be kind."

66

NUPTIAL POETICS.

My friend," said C., " you know I marriage hate; And, to speak truth, unto your wedding fête,

Unwillingly I come.”

"Believe me, as a guest, no one's more fit:
A-verse to marriage, you're most requisite
For an epithalamium."

STANZAS.

A woman once, as it is

sung,

Could speak so loud, without a tongue,
You hear her could a mile hence:
But I a greater wonder know-
A Christian woman who, although
She has a tongue, keeps silence!

There was a man, the story goes,
Who wrote a volume with his toes,-
So I've been told, and credit:
But, what's more wonderful than that,
And quite as credible and pat,
I knew a man that read it!

There was a man, a foe to strife,
Who died because he had a wife;
But, what is more uncommon,
There was a fool, the other day,
Who died with grief because, they say,
He could not win a woman!

LOOK AND SEE!

A stubborn schoolmaster declared,
That see and look's the same;
A man, who this decision heard,
Said, "Sir, you're much to blame :

"You've made a wonderful mistake,
Which you'll not fail to find,
If you'll suppose, for reason's sake,
That you, alas! were blind.

"If I to you glass eyes should sell,
This truth would then befall;

That, though you look extremely well,
You could not see at all."