-My Lady dear, I think 'twere best
That we should let the matter rest:
Our argument will not prevail;
The plate was purchas'd at a SALE;
And the good Knight, a little vain,
Thought fit to let the ARMS remain.
'Tis my advice,-your anger cease,
And let the Herald live in peace.
Our Honours will be more secure
To sink the Bearings of the Brewer.

Thus, while they talk'd the matter o'er, The splendid Roll sinks on the floor; And lo, a sight brimful of fears :-The HERALD'S gone, and DEATH appears. His Lordship starts, and shakes, and falls : My Lady stares, and screams, and squalls. 'Make not,' said Death, 'this mighty stir; 'You're now a wealthy Dowager,

" And may, perhaps, for many a year, 'Live on, the Widow of a Peer,

'But 'twere as well to lay aside

'This embryo of human pride.

'Whether from Priam you descend,

'Or your Dad cried-Old chairs to mend;

'When you are summon'd to your end,

}

'You will not shun the fatal blow;

' And sure, you 're old enough to know, 'That though each varying Pedigree 'Begins with TIME,-it ends with ME.'

The Catchpole need not fear a jail, The Undertaker is his Bail.

THE CATCHPOLE

LAW is, or should the offspring be
Of JUSTICE and HUMANITY,

And prove as plain as A, B, C.
Should go strait forward on its way,
Nor e'er be subject to delay:

No crosses should its steps prolong
To what is right, or what is wrong.
The Law is just, the Law is good,
While suffer'd to be understood;
But 'tis the PRACTICE that confounds it,
Winding its mystic Nonsense round it;
And such fallacious arts possessing,
It to a curse converts the blessing.

PRACTICE, the fruit of am'rous sport, In King's Bench Walks, or Fig-Tree Court; What time Contention did constrain

To his embrace the Fiend Chicane;

When, drugg'd with pleadings, Justice slept,

While Reason saw the deed, and wept.