THE PEDANT.

BY THE SAME.

LYSANDER talks extremely well:
On any fubject let him dwell,

His tropes and figures will content ye. He should poffefs to all degrees

The art of talk-he practifes

Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.

CAUTIOUS ALICE.

BY THE SAME,

SO good a wife doth Liffy make,
That from all company the flieth:
Such virtuous courses doth she take,
That the all evil tongues defieth;
And, for her deareft fpoufe's fake,

She with his brethren only lieth.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

BY THE SAME.

SAYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife, "You never yet told me one truth in your life.” Vex'd Pontia no way could this thefis allow"You're a Cuckold," fays fhe; " do I tell you truth now?"

THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE.

BY THE SAME.

I SENT for Radcliffe, was fo ill

That other doctors gave me over; He felt my pulfe, prescrib'd his pill, And I was likely to recover.

But when the wit began to wheeze,

And wine had warm'd the politician,

Cur'd yesterday of my disease,

I died last night of my phyfician.

CUPID MISTAKEN.

BY THE SAME.

AS afternoon, one fummer's day,
Venus ftood bathing in a river,

Cupid a-fhooting went that way,

New ftrung his bow, new fill'd his quiver.

With skill he chofe his fharpeft dart,

With all his might his bow he drew Swift to his beauteous parent's heart The too well-guided arrow flew.

I faint! I die! the Goddefs cried;

Ah! cruel! could'ft thou find none other

To wreak thy fpleen on?

Parricide!

Like Nero, thou haft flain thy mother.

Poor Cupid fobbing scarce could speak -
Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye :
Alas! how eafy my mistake!

I took you for your likeness Cloe.

D

TO CLOE WEEPING.

BY THE SAME.

SEE, whilft thou weep'ft, fair Cloe, fee
The world in fympathy with thee;
The cheerful birds no longer fing,

Each droops his head, and hangs his wing.
The clouds have bent their bofom lower,
And shed their forrows in a fhower.
The brooks beyond their limits flow,
And louder murmurs speak their woe.
The nymphs and fwains adopt thy cares,
They heave thy fighs, and weep thy tears.
Fantastic nymph! that Grief should move
Thy heart obdurate against Love!
Strange tears! whose power can soften all
Bofoms, but that on which they fall.

SENT TO CLARINDA WITH A NOVEL, ENTITLED,

"LES MALHEURS DE L'AMOUR."

BY GRANVILLE *,

HASTE to Clarinda, and reveal

Whatever pains poor lovers feel:

When that is done, then tell the fair,

That I endure much more for her.

Who'd truly know Love's power and smart,
Muft view her eyes, and read my heart.

WRITTEN IN CLARINDA'S PRAYER-BOOK.

BY THE SAME.

IN vain, Clarinda, night and day,
For mercy to your God you pray.
What arrogance, on heav'n to call
For that which you deny to all!

* George, Lord Lansdowne.