"Lord Nugent"—"an enchanting shape❞— "The gout, by Jove, is "-"apple pie ;" "Don Miguel "—"Tom the Tinker;"— "His Lordship's pedigree's as high As"-"Whipcord, dam by Clinker." 66 Love's shafts are weak”—“my chestnut kicks”— "Heart broken "-"broke the traces ;""What say you now of politics?”— "Change sides, and to your places!""A five-barred gate "-" a precious pearl "— “Grave things may all be punned on!”— "The Whigs, thank Heaven, are"-" out of curl"—— "Her age is "—"four by London !" Thus run the giddy hours away, Till morning's light is beaming, We dress in fancies quite as strange (1828.) A LETTER OF ADVICE. FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, at PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON. “Enfin Monsieur, un homme aimable; Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer."-Scribe. You tell me you're promised a lover, The hue of his coat, and his cheek? A vicar, a banker, a beau, Be deaf to your father and mother, Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, Taught us both how to sing and to speak, And we loved one another with passion You gave me a ring for a token, I wear it wherever I go; gave you a chain-is it broken? I My own Araminta, say "No!" Oh! think of our favorite cottage, And think of our dear Lalla Rookh; How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, "What farther can grandeur bestow?" My heart is the same is yours altered? My own Araminta, say "No!" Remember the thrilling romances Would picture for both of us then; You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage When I heard I was going abroad, Love, And I said, "When a foreign postilion We parted! but sympathy's fetters And feel that your heart is mine still. If he's not what Orlando should be, Love, If he wears a top boot in his wooing, If he studies the news in the papers, If he ever sets foot in the city, If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 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 dotes 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!" He must walk like a god of old story, Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile like the sun in his glory, On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh, from its ivory portal, Like music his soft speech must flow!If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!" Don't listen to tales of his bounty, Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county, Don't calculate what he is worth; |