Such Taste and Feeling! all agree He's sure the Soul of Company!" QUESTION IV. Pray," ask'd a fourth, at Phillot's stand, The tumbler smoking in her hand,— If dear Variety be sweet, He needs must prove a constant treat, Does all things, and yet does them well. EXTEMPORE LINES, PRESENTED ON THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND: FOR APPEARING IN BLACK. How's this?-in mourning-garments, and the night The Swan's fair colours, could she change her plume,- 5 I own I own the charge :-but Bride-nights have been sung In troth, they were as near as bone and skin. To hail this Marriage came the tuneful Nine, And ever since that Union, every Pair, On bridal days, have been the Muses' care; And some have thought each Match was made in Heav'n. In very truth, there's not a simile, A trope, a figure left, alas! for me; Stripp'd are the Trees of Fancy and of Love; And, just like Shakspeare's Mulberry, Fiction has cut a Forest from a Tree; And Hymen, who loves shade, has not one Grove. At least a hundred thousand songs, thrice told, There's nothing left for Matches made this year, Nothing, I mean, that's new:-bride-pinks and roses Have long been us'd in Matrimonial Posies, That scarce a bud remains for Beauty's pillow; Bards Bards have to true-love-knots turn'd all the bowers, That I have nought to offer but the Willow. And hence it is I am in sables drest, my While bloomy vestments grace each other guest: Then since the flowers Parnassian are o'er,— To form a fadeless Wreath, my Friend, for You! TO AN OLD MARRIED COUPLE; ON THE AUTHOR'S BEING PRESENT AT THEIR MEETING AFTER A SHORT SEPARATION. WHEN to the happy Time you've pass'd May ev'ry parting lose a tear, Or, Or, should you weep though both are near, Oh, may And if the Fates so friendly prove To add another six or seven, May these, too, bless you as they move, Nay-now a wishing-cap the Bard When wedded, may that gifted Boy And share your Heav'n of Heav'ns beside! TO THE MEMORY OF *******. THOUGH in her cheek soft Beauty's flow'r maintain'd Which plucks the thorn from Sorrow's aching heart; EXTEMPORE. TO A LADY IN FEEBLE HEALTH. WHY do the Fates so oft decree, To frames of steel, and lungs of leather, A privilege all day to laugh; Without a care through life to roll; While, miser-like, those Fates dispense And leave a Reed to brave the Storm! 'Tis strange, and yet there's reason in it; A QUESTION |