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“Sometimes you may him grave behold,

“ And dressed in drab. so oddly! “ He, like the puritans of old,

“ Affects to be so godly!

“ He next becomes a joyous elf,

“ And tries to dance and caper; “And next he really thinks himself,

“ A ruined linen draper !”

The doctor added, “Sir, you will

“Not at your treatment wonder, “Since, though we've really used you ill,

“ The lady caused the blunder.”

The Quaker groans,-too late he sees

How deep the scheme and artful; He takes his hat, and homeward flies

With pockets light, but heart full.

And tells his sire in woful strain,

With tears his optics swimming, How, when all arts were tried in vain

By men, he's duped by women!

LINES

WRITTEN DURING A VERY STORMY NIGHT, WHEN THE AUTHOR

WAS PREVENTED FROM SLEEPING BY THE CHIMNEY TOP, WHICH VEERING CONTINUALLY ROUND IN THE WIND, RAISED THE MOST ANNOYING SOUNDS THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT.

Thou fickle, noisy, fluttering thing,

Whose tongue invades my wearied ear,
Oh, cease with croaking voice to sing

Thy music here!
Nor on my torpid senses bring

These sounds of fear.

Restless I turn from side to side,

And Morpheus, balmy god, invoke;
And scarce his wand had been applied

With gentle stroke,
When sudden oped my eyelids wide,

Scared by thy croak!

Poor Tantalus ! I feel for thee,

Condemned neck-deep in Stygian lake, By cruel Pluto's stern decree,

Thy post to take; And though mid plenty, never free:

Thy thirst to slake.

Thus I, unhappy wight! require

Some portion of the Morphean store, While pillow soft and bed conspire

To make me snoreBut all is vain, yon chimney spire

Won't cease to roar !

O Æolus ! I prithee fly

Thy cheek-inflated crew to stop; Or let them blow eight furlongs high

Yon chimney top; And when far hence in distant sky,

Thou mayst it drop.

Exhausted, wearied, almost dead,

I vow, than hear thine odious croak; I'd rather bear what many dread,

House full of smoke, And scolding wife, which things are said

To be no joke.

I should, at least, enjoy some peace,

When fire was out and ceased from smoking, And wife asleep, but thou wilt cease

Thy horrid croaking, Not till the gentlest winds decrease

Thou imp provoking!

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