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The Pig set up a dismal yelling:
Followed the robber to his dwelling,

Who like a fool had built it ʼmidst a bramble:
In manfully he sallied, full of might,
Determined to obtain his right,

And ’midst the bushes now began to scramble.

He drove the Magpie, tore his nest to rags,
And, happy on the downfall, poured his brags:

But ere he from the brambles came, alack !
His ears and eyes were miserably torn,
His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn,

He could not count ten hairs upon his back.

ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN;

OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY.

PETER PINDAR.

YOUNG women! don't be fond of killing,

Too well I know your hearts unwilling To hide beneath the vail a charm

Too pleased a sparkling eye to roll,

And with a neck to thrill the soul Of every swain with love's alarm.

Yet, yet, if prudence be not near
Its snow may melt into a tear.

The dimple smile, and pouting lip,

Where little Cupids nectar sip, Are very pretty lures I own:

But, ah! if prudence be not nigh,

Those lips where all the Cupids lie, May give a passage to a groan.

A Rose, in all the pride of bloom,

Flinging around her rich perfume, Her form to public notice pushing,

Amid the summer's golden glow,

Peeped on a Strawberry below, Beneath a leaf, in secret blushing.

" Miss Strawberry," exclaimed the Rose,

“What's beauty that no mortal knows? What is a charm, if never seen ?

You really are a pretty creature:

Then wherefore hide each blooming feature ? Come

up, and show your modest mien."

"Miss Rose," the Strawberry replied,

"I never did possess a pride That wished to dash the public eye:

Indeed, I own that I'm afraid

I think there's safety in the shade, Ambition causes many a sigh.”

"Go, simple child," the Rose rejoined,

"See how I wanton in the wind : I feel no danger's dread alarms :

And then observe the god of day,

How amorous with his golden ray, To pay his visits to my charms!”

No sooner said, but with a scream

She started from her favorite themeA clown had on her fixed his pat.

In vain she screeched-Hob did but smile;

Rubbed with her leaves his nose awhile, Then bluntly stuck her in his hat.

ECONOMY.

PETER PINDAR

Economy's a very useful broom;
Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room

To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb:
Too oft Economy's an iron vice,
That squeezes even the little guts of mice,

That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.

Proper Economy's a comely thing-
Good in a subject-better in a king;

Yet pushed too far, it dulls each finer feelingMost easily inclined to make folks mean; Inclines them too, to villainy to lean,

To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing.

Even when the heart should only think of grief,
It creeps into the bosom like a thief,
And swallows up th' affections all so mild-
Witness the Jewess, and her only child :-

THE JEWESS AND HER SON.

Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son,

Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat,

In imitation of th' ambitious great,
High from the gallery, ere the play begun,

He fell all plump into the pit,

Dead in a minute as a nit:
In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck;
Indeed and very dreadful was the wreck!

The mother was distracted, raving, wild-
Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child

Afflicted every heart with grief around:
Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past,
And moderately calm th' hysteric blast,

She cast about her eyes in thought profound :
And being with a saving knowledge blessed,
She thus the playhouse manager addressed:

“Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew laul,
Dat meet mishfartin here so bad-
Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know,
Ass Moses haf not see de show."

But as for Avarice, 'tis the very devil;
The fount, alas! of every evil:

The cancer of the heart-the worst of ills:
Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives;
No flower of virtue near it lives :

Like aconite, where'er it spreads, it kills.

In every soil behold the poison spring!
Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.

The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread;

So says that gentle satirist Squire Pope;
And Peterborough's Earl upon this head,

Affords us little room to hope,
That what the Twitnam bard avowed,
Might not be readily allowed.

THE COUNTRY

LASSES.

PETER PINDAR.

Peter lasbeth the Ladies.-He turneth Story-teller.--Peter grieveth.

ALTHOUGH the ladies with such beauty blaze,
They very frequently my passion raise-
Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of taste.

Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd,

I heard some damsels fashionably loud; And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.

"Oh! the dear man !" cried one, “look! here's a bonnet ! He shall paint me (-I am determind on it

Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown! What charming colors! here's fine lace, here's gauze ! What pretty sprigs the fellow draws !

Lord, cousin ! he's the cleverest man in town!"

Ay, cousin,” cried a second, " very true-
And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue !

There's a complexion beats the rouge of Warren!
See those red lips; oh, la! they seem so nice!
What rosy cheeks then, cousin, to entice !-

Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.

Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen,
Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen:
Pray, don't you think as I do, Coz?
But we 'll be painted first that's poz."

Such was the very pretty conversation

That pass'd between the pretty misses, While unobserv'd, the glory of our nation,

Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces. Works! that a Titian's hand could form aloneWorks! that a Reubens had been proud to own.

Permit me, ladies, now to lay before ye
What lately happen'd—therefore a true story :-

A STORY.

Walking one afternoon along the Strand,
My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expand

Upon a pretty leash of country lasses.

“Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do?

Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye.” “Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you ;

We're just to London come-well, pray how be ye;

“We're just a going, while 'tis light,

To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark. Lord ! come, for once, be so polite,

And condescend to be our spark.”

“With all my heart, my angels.”—On we walk’d,
And much of London-much of Cornwall talk'd.

Now did I hug myself to think
How much that glorious structure would surprise,

How from its awful grandeur they would shrink
With open mouths, and marv'ling eyes !

As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew,
St. Paul's just opening on our view;
Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all,
Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl,
As if they had been tumbled on the stones,
And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.

After well fright'ning people with their cries,
And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes,

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