Because I think you'd rather twirl
A waltz, with me to guide you,
Than talk small nonsense with an earl
And a coronet beside you!

Because you don't object to walk,
And are not given to fainting;
have not learnt to talk

Because you

Of flowers, and Poonah-painting;
Because I think you'd scarce refuse
To sew one on a button;

Because I know you'd sometimes choose
To dine on simple mutton!

Because I think I'm just so weak
As, some of those fine morrows,
To ask you if you'll let me speak
My story-and my sorrows;
Because the rest's a simple thing,
A matter quickly over,

A church-a priest-a sigh-a ring-
And a chaise and four to Dover.

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

ADVICE TO A LADY IN AUTUMN.

YSSES' milk, half-a-pint, take at seven, or before,

Then sleep for an hour or two, and no

more.

At nine stretch your arms, and oh! think when

alone

There's no pleasure in bed.-Mary, bring me my gown;

Slip on that ere you rise; let your caution be such; Keep all cold from your breast; there's already too much;

Your pinners set right; your twitcher tied on, Your prayers at an end, and your breakfast quite done,

Retire to some author improving and gay,

And with sense like your own, set your mind for the day.

At twelve you may walk, for at this time o' the

year,

The sun, like your wit, is as mild as 'tis clear :
But mark in the meadows the ruin of time;
Take the hint, and let life be improved in its prime.
Return not in haste, nor of dressing take heed;
For beauty like yours, no assistance can need.
With an appetite thus down to dinner you sit,
Where the chief of the feast is the flow of your wit:
Let this be indulged, and let laughter go round;
As it pleases your mind to your health 'twill re-
dound.

After dinner two glasses at least, I approve;
Name the first to the King and the last to your

love :

Thus cheerful, with wisdom, with innocence, gay, And calm with your joys, gently glide through

the day.

The dews of the evening most carefully shun; Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun. Then in chat, or at play, with a dance, or a song, Let the night, like the day, pass with pleasure

along.

All cares, but of love, banish far from your mind; And those you may end, when you please to be

kind.

PHILIP, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

A LETTER OF ADVICE

FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA Vavasour, in London.

OU tell me you're promised a lover,
My own Araminta, next week;
Why cannot my fancy discover

The hue of his coat and his cheek?

Alas! if he look like another,

A vicar, a banker, a beau,
Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say "No!"

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,
Taught us both how to sing and to speak,
And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:

You gave me a ring for a token;

I

I wear it wherever I go ;

gave you a chain,-is it broken? My own Araminta, say

"No!"

O think of our favourite cottage,

And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!

How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, And drank of the stream from the brook;

How fondly our loving lips faltered

"What further can grandeur bestow?" My heart is the same;-is yours altered? My own Araminta, say "No!"

Remember the thrilling romances
We read on the bank in the glen;
Remember the suitors our fancies
Would picture for both of us then.
They wore the red cross on their shoulder,
They had vanquished and pardoned their foe-
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?
My own Araminta, say "No!"

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage
Drove off with your cousin Justine,
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,
And whispered "How base she has been!"
You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband looked so ;

And

you will not apostatize,—will you? My own Araminta, say "No!"

When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;
We walked arm in arm to the road, love,
We looked arm in arm to the sky;
And I said "When a foreign postilion
Has hurried me off to the Po,
Forget not Medora Trevilian :

My own Araminta, say 'No!""

We parted! but sympathy's fetters
Reach far over valley and hill;
I muse o'er your exquisite letters,

And feel that your heart is mine still;
And he who would share it with me,

The richest of treasures below,

love,

If he's not what Orlando should be, love,
My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,

If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself "Thomson" 66
My own Araminta, say "No!"

or Skinner,"

If he studies the news in the papers
While you are preparing the tea,
If he talks of the damps or the vapours
While moonlight lies soft on the sea,
If he's sleepy while you are capricious,
If he has not a musical "Oh!"
If he does not call Werther delicious,—
My own Araminta, say “No!"

If he ever sets foot in the City
Among the stockbrokers and Jews,
If he has not a heart full of pity,

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes,
If his lips are not redder than roses,

If his hands are not whiter than snow,
If he has not the model of noses,-
My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,

If he does not look grand on his knees,
If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,
Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees,
If he doats not on desolate towers,

If he likes not to hear the blast blow,
If he knows not the language of flowers,-
My own Araminta, say "No!"