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My thanks I'll no longer delay

For the birds which you shot with such skill;

But though there was nothing to pay,

Yet each of them brought in his bill!

I mean not, my friend, to complain;
The matter is certainly right;

And when bills such as these come again,
I will always accept them at sight!

Anon.

DCCVII.

ON ONE PETER.

Poor Peter was in ocean drown'd,

A harmless quiet creature ;

And when at last his corpse was found

It had become salt-petre.

Anon.

DCCVIII.

ON JEKYLL'S BEING NEARLY THROWN BY A VERY SMALL

PIG.

As Jekyll walk'd out in his gown and his wig,
He happen'd to tread on a very small pig :
"Pig of Science," he said, "or else I am mistaken,
For surely thou art an abridgment of Bacon."

DCCIX.

TO AN UNKIND MAID.

To win the maid the poet tries,

And sometimes writes on Julia's eyes ;-
She likes a verse—but, cruel whim,

She still appears averse to him.

Anon.

Anon.

DCCX.

ON THE RIVER HANS-SUR-LESSE, IN BELGIUM.

Old Euclid may go to the wall,

For we've solved what he never could guess,

How the fish in the river are small,

But the river they live in is Lesse.

Anon.

DCCXI.

ON A GAMBLER.

"I'm very much surpris'd," quoth Harry, "That Jane a gambler thus should marry." "I'm not at all," her sister says;

"You know he has such winning ways!"

DCCXII.

ON BALLS AND OPERAS.

If by their names we things should call,
It surely would be properer,

To term a singing piece a bawl,
A dancing piece a hopperer!

Anon.

Anon.

DCCXIII.

ON TWO GUNMAKERS.

Two of a trade can ne'er agree-
Each worries each if able;

In Manton and in Egg we see
That proverb proved a fable.

Each deals in guns, whose loud report
Proclaims the fact I'm broaching;
Manton's are made for lawful sport,
And Egg's are best for poaching.

James Smith (1775-1839).

T

BOOK XI.

Compliments.

DCCXIV.

TO THE MEMORY OF SPENSER.

Here plac'd near Chaucer, Spenser claims a room,
As next to him in merit, next his tomb.
To place near Chaucer, Spenser lays a claim,
Nearer his tomb, but nearer far his fame.
With thee, our English verse was rais'd on high,
But now declin'd, it fears with thee to die.

Anon.

[From Pettigrew's Chronicles, where it is given as a translation of the Latin epitaph to Spenser which adorned his monument in Westminster Abbey before it was demolished by the Puritans.]

DCCXV.

ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Underneath this sable hearse

Lies the subject of all verse,

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;

Death, ere thou hast slain another
Fair and learn'd and good as she,

Time shall throw his dart at thee.

Ben Jonson (1574-1637).

[From Underwood's. Mary Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, was the sister of Sir Philip Sidney, who dedicated to her his Arcadia, and on whom she wrote an Elegy and a Pastoral Dialogue. She also translated some of the Psalms into English, and a tragedy called Anthony from the French.]

DCCXVI.

How ROSES BECAME RED.

Roses at first were white,
Till they could not agree
Whether my Sappho's breast
Or they more white should be.

But being vanquisht quite,

A blush their checks bespred;
Since which, believe the rest,
The roses first came red.

Robert Herrick (1591-1674).

DCCXVII.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

Shall I tell you how the rose at first grew red,

And whence the lily whiteness borrowed ?

You blush'd, and straight the rose with red was dight,
The lily kiss'd your hand, and so was white.

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