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Week after week, till by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him;
For his skin "like a lady's loose gown," hung about him.
He sent for a doctor, and cried, like a ninny,

"I've lost many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea."


The doctor looked wise :- 66 a slow fever," he said;
Prescribed sudorifics,—and going to bed.
"Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, are humbugs!
I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs!"
Will kicked out the doctor :-but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host-he said-" Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman, six months ago?

Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin,
"That with honest intentions you first took me in:
But from the first night—and to say it I'm bold—
I've been so very hot, that I'm sure I caught cold!"

Quoth the landlord,—“ Till now, I ne'er had a dispute
I've let lodgings ten years, I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately-over my oven.”

"The oven!!!"—says Will;—says the host, "Why this passion?

In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.

Why so crusty, good sir ?"-" Zounds!" cried Will in a taking, "Who would not be crusty, with half a year's baking?"

"Will paid for his rooms :"-cried the host with a sneer, "Well, I see you've been going away half a year." "Friend, we can't well agree;-yet no quarrel,”—Will said: "But I'd rather not perish, while you make your bread."



So goes the world; if wealthy, you may call
This friend, that brother, friends and brothers all;
Though you are worthless-witless-never mind it;

You may have been a stable-boy-what then?
"Tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men.
You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.
But if you're poor, heaven help you! though your sire
Had royal blood within him, and though you
Possess the intellect of angels too

'Tis all in vain ;-the world will ne'er inquire
On such a score:-Why should it take the pains?
"Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.
I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever,
Witty and wise:—he paid a man a visit,

And no one noticed him, and no one ever
Gave him a welcome. "Strange,” cried I, "whence is it!"
He walked on this side, then on that,
He tried to introduce a social chat;
Now here, now there, in vain he tried;
Some formally and freezingly replied,
And some

Said by their silence-" Better stay at home."
A rich man burst the door,

As Croesus rich, I'm sure

He could not pride himself upon his wit;
And as for wisdom, he had none of it;
He had what's better;-he had wealth.
What a confusion!-all stand up erect-
These crowd around to ask him of his health;
These bow in honest duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.

“Allow me sir, the honor;”—Then a bow
Down to the earth-Is't possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?
The poor man hung his head,
And to himself he said,

"This is indeed beyond my comprehension :"
Then looking round,

One friendly face he found,

And said—“ Pray tell me why is wealth preferred
To wisdom?""That's a silly question, friend!"
Replied the other-" have you never heard,

A man may lend his store

Of gold or silver ore,

But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"


Addressed to Dr. Moyce, late lecturer on the Philosophy of Natural History.

Dear doctor let it not transpire,

How much your lectures we admire;
How at your eloquence we wonder,
When you explain the cause of thunder;
Of lightning, and electricity,

With so much plainness and simplicity;
The origin of rocks and mountains,
Of seas and rivers, lakes and fountains;
Of rain and hail, and frost and snow
And all the storms and winds that blow;
Besides a hundred wonders more,
Of which we never heard before.
But now, dear doctor, not to flatter,
There is a most important matter-
A matter which you never touch on,
A matter which our thoughts run much on,
A subject, if we right conjecture,
That well deserves a long, long lecture,
Which all the ladies would approve,
The natural history of love!

Deny us not, dear doctor Moyce!
Oh list to our entreating voice!
Tell us why our poor tender hearts
So easily admit love's darts.

Teach us the marks of love's beginning;
What makes us think a beau so winning;
What makes us think a coxcomb witty,
A black coat wise, a red coat-pretty!
Why we believe such horrid lies,
That we are angels from the skies,
Our teeth like pearl, our cheeks like roses,
eyes like stars-such charming noses!
Explain our dreams, awake and sleeping,
Explain our blushing, laughing, weeping.
Teach us, dear doctor, if you can,
To humble that proud creature, man
To turn the wise ones into fools,
The proud and insolent to tools;
To make them all run, helter skelter,
Their necks-into the marriage-halter:

Then leave us to ourselves with these;
We'll turn and rule them as we please.
Dear doctor, if you grant our wishes,
We promise you-five hundred kisses;
And, rather than the affair be blundered,
We'll give you-six score to the hundred.


A butterfly gay, in the month of July,
When flowerets were in their full bloom,
Was plying his wings 'neath a beautiful sky,
In search of the richest perfume.

Fatigued with its pleasures it rested awhile
On a sand-bank to bask in the sun,
Where an ant it espied, at its wearisome toil,
And the following confab begun.

"What oh, foolish thing, why dost work like a slave,
Why toil on this beautiful day;

Come ramble with me and thou pleasure shalt have,
And thy moments glide gaily away.

I toil not like thee, yet I live like a king,
And riot in garden and grove;

The sweets of the flowers I enjoy as they spring;
Where fancy directs me to rove.

Behold for thyself, too, how gay I appear,
The hues of the rainbow are mine;

How blest my condition, how pleasant my cheer,
And my looks, how much better than thine!
Now take my advice and give up thy hard toil,
And throw thy huge burden away;

Enjoyment and pleasures our hours shall beguile,
And thus we shall get through the day."

The ant, with a true philosophical eye,
Viewed the butterfly's gaudy attire ;

Next paused, shrugged his shoulders, then made this reply,


Suppose you should fall in the mire

Methinks you would tumble and flutter about,

And wish yourself safe in my hut;

But if by good fortune you chanced to get out,
What a notable figure you'd cut!

But that's a misfortune you never may meet,
Yet tempest and storm will arrive;

Then where are your perfumes that now are so sweet?
They're gone, and you cannot survive.

As for me, while there's plenty, I make me a home,
And to store it industrious am I;

I've a refuge to fly to when perils do come,
Time's precious-I wish you good-by."

Some men like the butterfly madly pursue
The baubles of earth while they've breath;
The wants of the future they keep not in view,
Nor prepare for the winter of death.

But some like the ant are industrious and wise,
Improving each hour that is given;

They lay up their treasure above the bright skies,
And a mansion awaits them in heaven.

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An Eton stripling-training for the law,
A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw,-
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf

His cap and gown and stores of learned pelf,

With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Returned, and passed the usual how-d'ye-does,
Inquiries of old friends, and college news;

"Well, Tom, the road; what saw you worth discerning?
How's all at college, Tom: what is't you're learning?"
"Learning?-Oh, logic, logic; not the shallow rules
Of Lockes and Bacons, antiquated fools!
But wits' and wranglers' logic; for d'ye see

I'll prove as clear as A, B, C,

That an eel-pie's a pigeon; to deny it,


Is to say black's not black ;"—" Come let's try it?" 'Well, sir; an eel-pie is a pie of fish:" "Agreed." 'Fish-pie may be a jack-pie :"-" Well, well, proceed." "A jack-pie is a John-pie-and 'tis done!



For every John-pie must be a pie-John." (pigeon.)
""Bravo! Bravo!" Sir Peter cries," Logic for ever!
This beats my grandmother, and she was clever.
But now I think on't, 'twould be mighty hard

If merit such as thine met no reward:

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