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Ah no! the mighty names are heard no more: Pride's thought sublime, and Beauty's kindling

bloom, Serve but to sport one flying moment o'er, And swell with pompous verse th' escutcheon'd


For me-may Passion ne'er my soul invade,
Nor be the whims of tow'ring Frenzy giv'n;
LetWealth ne'er court me from the peaceful shade
Where Contemplation wings the soul to Heaven!

Oh guard me safe from Joy's enticing share! With each extreme that Pleasure tries to hide, The poison'd breath of slow-consuming Care, The noise of Folly, and the dreams of Pride.

But oft, when midnight's sadly solemn knell
Sounds long and distant from the sky-topt tow'r,
Calm let me sit in Prosper's lonely cell,*
Or walk with Milton through the dark obscure.

* See Shakespeare's Tempest.

Thus, when the transient dream of life is filed, May some sad friend recall the former years; Then, stretch'd in silence o'er my dusty bed, Pour the warm gush of sympathetic tears!




“ CONSCIENCE has nought to say to Trade," Says SLANDER-happy to degrade.

I'll prove it otherwise, by good old THRALE, Great in the annals of good Beer; An ocean too, the Brewer's sphere,

Himself the master-the important whale. .

I own that consciences are ninnies ;
Dupes unto fascinating guineas;

Indeed, so 'witching are their splendid faces !
Shillings, and pence too, let me say,
Can lead some consciences astray,

For these are not without their winning graces,

Now for my tale.- The Drayman Mat,
Wishing to peep into the vat,

And view the sea of boiling, foaming wort; When lo! (a very serious matter) His star—of most malignant nature- (for't;

Sous'd him plump in; who did not thank him

For loud the Drayman roar'd, and vainly toild;
And, like a chicken, soon the man was boild !
I say, indeed, extremely like a chicken;
As tender quite—but not so pleasant picking.

Lord! what was done? Attend you'll hear:
Compassionating the poor beer,

The Brewer scorn'd to give it a bad name :
Not to a single soul he told it,
But, like the former, calmly sold it;

When, strange to tell, it won immortal'fame.

A.customer, callid Peter Por,
Whose lucky, very lucky lot,

Was to be favour'd with this christian beer, Proceeds to Turale's--proclaims its praise : “ Ne’er drank such beer in my born days!

" A glorious,glorious brew! liked ev'ry where

“ So pleas'd were folks—Sir,hundreds I can name; “ So let me always have the very same.' 6. Your name is up, Sir; you may lie abed. “ You've hit the nail at last upon the head.”

“ Well,MasterPor,"quoth MisterTHRALE,
“ I'm glad the beer had such a sale
“ Depend on't, it shall be my constant plan
“ To make the next as near it as I can.”

What could be fairer? Yet, God wot,
This answer pleas'd not Peter Pot.

“ As near it as you can !" cried Por
“ Why not the very same ?why not?

“ Put in the same materials, and 'twill do." " Damme,” quoth THRALE, enragd, “ dost

" think " I'll make my conscience always wink, • 6 And boil a Dryman ev'ry time I brow ?"

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