And strutting out foreright? A good stout busk,
Pushing athwart, shall force the intruder back.
Hath she red brows? A little soot will cure
them.

Is she too black? The ceruse makes her fair:
Too pale of hue? The opal comes in aid.
Hath she a beauty out of sight? Disclose it.
Strip nature bare, without a blush.-Fine teeth?
Let her affect one everlasting grin,
Laugh without stint-But ah! if laugh she cannot,
And her lips won't obey, take a fine twig
Of myrtle, shape it like a butcher's skewer,
And prop them open, set her on the bitt,
Day after day, when out of sight, 'till use
Grows second nature, and the pearly row,
Will she or will she not, perforce appears.

PARENTS AND CHILDREN.

WHEREAS all other states of Greece compel
The children of poor parents to support
Those who begot them, we of Athens make
The law imperative on such children only
As are beholden to their parents for
The blessing of a liberal education.

LOVE.

LOVE, the disturber of the peace of heaven,
And grand fomenter of Olympian feuds,
Was banished from the synod of the gods.
They drove him down to earth at the expense
Of us poor mortals, and curtailed his wings
To spoil his soaring, and secure themselves
From his annoyance.-Selfish, hard decree!
For ever since he roams the unquiet world,
The tyrant and despoiler of mankind.

MARRIAGE.

A MAN may marry once without a crime, But curst is he who weds a second time.

PYTHAGORAS' VISIT TO HELL. I've heard this arrogant impostor tell Amongst the wonders which he saw in hell, That Pluto with his scholars sate and fed, Singling them out from the inferior dead:

Good faith! The monarch was not over nice, Thus to take up with beggary and lice.

ON THE DISCIPLES OF PYTHAGORAS.
So gaunt they seem, that famine never made
Of lank Philippides so mere a shade:
Of salted tunny-fish their scanty dole,
Their beverage, like the frogs, a standing pool,
With now and then a cabbage, at the best
The leavings of the caterpillar's feast:
No comb approaches their dishevelled hair
To rout the long established myriads there;
On the bare ground their bed; nor do they
know

A warmer coverlid than serves the crow:
Flames the meridian sun without a cloud?
They bask like grasshoppers, and chirp as loud.
With oil they never even feast their eyes;
The luxury of stockings they despise;
But, barefoot as the crane they march along,
All night in chorus with the screech-owl's song.

The following fragment, preserved by Athenæus, is all that remains of this poet.

THE LOVES OF THE GREEK POETS.

Such was the nymph whom ORPHEUS led
From the dark mansions of the dead,
Where Charon with his lazy boat
Ferries o'er Lethe's sedgy moat;
The undaunted minstrel smites the strings,
His strain through hell's vast concave rings;
Cocytus hears the plaintive theme,
And refluent turns his pitying stream;
Three-headed Cerberus, by fate
Posted at Pluto's iron gate,
Low-crouching rolls his haggard eyes
Extatic, and foregoes the prize;
With ears erect at hell's wide doors,
Lies listening as the songster soars:
Thus music charm'd the realm beneath,
And beauty triumph'd over death.

The bard, whom night's pale regent bore
In secret on the Athenian shore,
MUSEUS, felt the sacred flame,
And burnt for the fair Theban dame,
Antiope, whom mighty Love
Made pregnant by imperial Jove;
The poet plied his amorous strain,
Press'd the fond fair, nor press'd in vain;
For Ceres, who the veil undrew,
That screen'd her mysteries from view,
Propitious this kind truth reveal'd,
That woman close-besieged will yield.
HOMER, of all past bards the prime,
And wonder of all future time,
Whom Jove with wit sublimely blest,
And touched with purest fire his breast,

From gods and heroes turned away
To warble the domestic lay,
And, wandering to the desert isle,
On whose parch'd rocks no seasons smile,
In distant Ithaca was seen
Chaunting the suit-repelling queen.

Old HESIOD, too, his native shade
Made vocal to the Ascræan maid;
The bard his heaven-directed lore
Forsook, and hymn'd the gods no more;
Soft, love-sick ditties now he sung,
Love touch'd his harp, love tuned his tongue,
Silenced his Heliconian lyre,

And quite put out religion's fire.

MIMNERMUS tuned his amorous lay,
When time had turned his temples gray;
Love revelled in his aged veins,

Soft was his lyre, and sweet his strains;
Frequenter of the wanton feast,

Nanno his theme, and youth his guest.

ANTIMACHUS with tender art
Poured forth the sorrows of his heart;
In her Dardanian grave he laid
Chryseis, his beloved maid;
And thence returning, sad beside
Pactolus' melancholy tide,
To Colophon the minstrel came,
Still sighing forth the mournful name,
Till lenient time his grief appeas'd,
And tears by long indulgence ceas'd.

ALCEUS strung his sounding lyre,
And smote it with a hand of fire,

PHILOXENUS, by wood-nymphs bred,
On famed Citharon's sacred head,
And trained to music, wine, and song,
Midst orgies of the frantic throng,
When beauteous Galatea died,
His flute and thyrsus cast aside;
And, wandering to thy pensive coast,
Sad Melos, where his love was lost;
Each night, through the responsive air,
Thy echoes witness'd his despair;
Still, still his plaintive harp was heard,
Soft as the nightly singing bird.
PHILOTAS, too, in Battis' praise,
Sung his long-winded roundelays;
His statue in the Coan grove,

Now breathes in brass perpetual love.

The mortified, abstemious Sage,
Deep-read in learning's crabbed page,
PYTHAGORAS, whose boundless soul
Scaled the wide globe from pole to pole,
Earth, planets, seas, and heavens above,
Yet found no spot secure from love;
With love declines unequal war,
And, trembling, drags his conqueror's car;—
Theano clasp'd him in her arms,

And Wisdom stooped to Beauty's charms.
E'en SOCRATES, whose moral mind
With truth enlighten'd all mankind,
When at Aspasia's side he sate,
Still found no end to love's debate;
For strong indeed must be the heart
Where love finds no unguarded part.
Sage ARISTIPPUS, by right rule
Of logic, purged the Sophist's school,
Check'd folly in its headlong course,
And swept it down by reason's force;
'Till Venus aimed the heartfelt blow,
And laid the mighty victor low.

some figs intended for his own eating. Philemon was considered by some as superior to Menander, and even carried off the prize from him on several occasions.

THE JUST MAN.

ALL are not just, because they do no wrong,
But he, who will not wrong me when he may,
He is the truly just. I praise not them,
Who, in their petty dealings pilfer not;
But him, whose conscience spurns a secret fraud,
When he might plunder and defy surprise:
His be the praise, who, looking down with scorn
On the false judgment of the partial herd,
Consults his own clear heart, and boldly dares
To be, not to be thought, an honest man.

THE SOVEREIGN GOOD. PHILOSOPHERS consume much time and pains To seek the sovereign good; nor is there one, Who yet hath struck upon it: Virtue some, And Prudence some contend for, whilst the knot Grows harder by their struggles to untie it. I, a mere clown, in turning up the soil, Have dug the secret forth-All-gracious Jove!

'Tis Peace, most lovely, and of all beloved; Peace is the bounteous goddess who bestows Weddings, and holidays, and joyous feasts, Relations, friends, health, plenty, social comforts, And pleasures, which alone make life a blessing.*

TRUTH.

Now, by the gods, it is not in the power
Of Painting or of Sculpture to express
Aught so divine as the fair form of TRUTH!
The creatures of their art may catch the eye,
But her sweet nature captivates the soul.

ON TEARS.

Ir tears could medicine human ills, and give The o'ercharged heart a sweet restorative,

* We are told by Dr. Parr, that the above passage was a very favourite one with Mr. Fox.

Gold, jewels, splendour, all we reckon dear,
Were mean and worthless to a single tear.
But ah! nor treasures bribe, nor raining eyes,
Our firm inexorable destinies :-

Weep we or not, as sun succeeds to sun,
In the same course our fates unpitying run.
Tears yet are ours, whene'er misfortunes press,
And though our weeping fails to give redress,
Long as their fruits the changing seasons bring,
Those bitter drops will flow from Sorrow's
spring.

SENSE AND NONSENSE.

Never to reach prosperity again

"What tell you me: Have I not friends to fly to?
I have; and will not those kind friends protect me?"
Better it were, you should not need their service,
And so not make the trial. Much I fear
Your sinking hand would only grasp a shade.

HOPELESS ANGUISH.

'Tis not on them alone, who tempt the sea, That the storm breaks; it whelms e'en us, Laches,

Whether we pace the open colonnade,

Or to the inmost shelter of our house