With what's all this? What are you

doing?

And where, you Scarecrow, are you going?
-Madam, your Husband's time is come;
And, as you see, He's going home.
His eyes are now for ever closing-
-You lie, you thief, He's only dosing;
And, if you rob me of the rest,

I'll take his wig, for that 's his best.-
-This instant let your manners mend,
Or I'll the fatal stroke suspend:

If you continue thus to scold,
I will your widowhood with-hold;
A worser evil shall betide you,
He shall snore ten more years beside
And if with me you play the shrew,

He still shall live to bury you.—

you.

-It was my grief, Sir, pray excuse me: Your pardon, Sir, do not refuse me.

I feel that I have done amiss;

But such a cruel sight as this,
So sad, so unexpected too,

How could a wife, so fond, so true,
Without heart-rending feelings view!
And when on such a sight we gaze,
Why, Sorrow knows not what it says:

Ah, vain would be the Doctor's skill;
So I submit me to your will.-'
'-Go on before, prepare the way
For this same heavy load of clay :

Discard his wig, and seize his riches:

You now may wear the DEAD Man's BREECHES.'

THE HONEY MOON

Of all the Follies that disgrace

The progress of the human race,
Few call for livelier ridicule,
Or more distinctly mark the fool,
Than when old age attempts to prove,
That still it has the power to love.—
It asks not youth, it asks not health,
To hoard accumulated wealth:
To the last stage of lengthen'd years,
The love of gold the Miser cheers;
And, on the day he tells fourscore,
He still can count his treasures o'er.—
While Reason lives, the hoary sage
May feel that Wisdom crowns his age;
And, to Life's most protracted hour,
He may enjoy the pride of Power.
But Nestor's self a fool would prove,

If he should turn his thoughts to love.
When Winter's Form, with trembling pace,
Attempts a sprightly, vernal grace,