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But after pondering pro and con,
The constable again was sent,
To bring the dog; or dread the event.
POOR PORTER, right before the door,
Was guarding of his master's store;
He came to steal his master's chink.
The man, by virtue of his staff,
Bid people help; not stand and laugh;
On which a mighty rout began;
Some blamed the dog, and some the man.
Some said he had no business there,
And those who would not help were jail'd;
The justices received the felon,
At length a curious quibble rose,
How far the law could interpose,
For it was proved, and rightly too,
"Now if, suppose, a man, or so,
And if that, after that he died,
D'ye think the other mayn't be tried?
She never had been drown'd-that's clear."
This logic, rhetoric, and wit,
So nicely did the matter hit,
That Porter-tho' unheard, was cast,
And in a halter breathed his last.
The justices adjourned to dine,
And whet their logic up with wine.
A LONG NOSED FRIEND.
Going along the other day,
I called unto the nose to stop,
THE SNOWDROP AND CRITIC,
To the Editor of the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.
I have given your very modest "Snow Drop" what, I think, Shakspeare calls "a local habitation and a name;" that is, I have made a poet of him, and have sent him to take possession of a page in your next Magazine: here he comes, disputing with a critic about the propriety of a prologue.
Enter CRITIC and SNOW DROP.
Prologues to magazines!-the man is mad,
Bit by the muse in an unlucky hour,
I've left myself at home, and turn'd a flower,
A plain white Snow Drop gathered from the vale:
I come to sing that summer is at hand,
The summer time of wit, you'll understand;
If their good grace will give us time to grow;
We've various seeds just struggling into birth;
* Introduction to Magazine, No. 1.-See p. 18, Miscellaneous Letters and Essays.
Plants, fruits, and flowers, and all the smiling race,
Our numbers, Sir, so vast and endless are,
Each eye, each hand, shall pluck what suits its taste,
The Rose and Lily shall address the fair,
And whisper sweetly out, "My dears, take care;
All this is mighty fine! but prithee, when
I'll tell you, sir! we'll garnish out the scenes
With stately rows of hardy Evergreens,
Trees that will bear the frost, and deck their tops
With everlasting flowers, like diamond drops,
We'll draw, and paint, and carve, with so much skill, That wondering wits shall cry, diviner still!
Better, and better, yet! but now suppose,
Some critic wight, in mighty verse or prose,
Should draw his gray goose weapon, dipt in gall, And mow ye down, Plants, Flowers, Trees, and all.
Why, then we'll die like Flowers of sweet Perfume, And yield a fragrance even in the tomb!