Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns,
Averts her blushing face;
Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns
To meet his warm embrace:
Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be,
Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.
The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King.
This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing;
But there's a deep-laid policy in it;
For, did the Chancellor not--that conscience keep,
It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit;
Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.
* * * * *
Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree.
'Pat!'--cries an Englishman--''tis clear to me,
More grateful for the union you should be;
Think what an honour is to Ireland done:
Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!'
"Murther!"--cries Pat--"he wedded her by force,
And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."
ON THE NEW EXPERIMENT OF LIGHTING THE HOUSE
OF COMMONS BY MEANS OF GAS-PIPES PLACED
BETWEEN THE TWO CEILINGS.
Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,
Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;
Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,
For blind debate might love that darkness still,
'Tis well the new experiment to try:
A stronger, purer light--none can deny--
Will then illume the House--light coming from on high.
* * * * *
'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!'
Cried Hal,--'can play the part of Bottom.'
"Play it yourself;"--retorted Ned,--
"You'll look quite natural with an ass's head."
ON SEEING MR. NUTES,
A SENSELESS, UNFEELING FELLOW, WEEP AT THE
REPRESENTATION OF KING LEAR.
Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?
No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,
Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;
Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,
Draws tears of pity from a barber's block!
* * * * *
A quack, a mere anatomy,
Wanting to buy a nag,
Questions his friend, a wag,
What colour it shall be:--
'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course,
For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.'
ON THE
LATE REFORM AND THE WHIG ADMINISTRATION.
Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation;--
The people hail their own-elected House;
On tiptoe stands the general expectation:--
What the grand doings of the Administration?
Lo! from the labouring mountain creeps a mouse!
* * * * *
Metaphysical Sages
Have writ many pages,
To decide if the Mind
Be Spirit or Matter:--
How strange! that in the pages
Of these metaphysical sages
We so seldom can find
Mind, Spirit, or Matter!
TO A
CONCEITED & AFFECTED, BUT HANDSOME WOMAN.
Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat,
All flattery you despise?--
Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that,
And I am sure he lies.
* * * * *
What a strong contrast to most modern sages
Were some philosophers of ancient ages!
E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too,
Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew.
Now! vain pretenders such presumption show,
They seem to fancy that they all things know.
Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity,
Would that ye knew but half as much as he!