PARISIA TO BRITANNICUS.

bear me once?

Ан! mon ami, from Paris am I come,
And but for you with pain re-visit home.
Mon dieu, mon cher, how could you
To me pert Chloris is become a dunce,
The creature knows not half that now I know,
Dubois le maitre, and Dubois le beau,
The very thing at Paris all acknowledge,
And yet le cher Dubois* was ne'er at College.
And if the charming soul, with such desert,
Divides a portion of Parisia's heart,

I grant with ease the better half your right,
Which to refuse is vulgar, English quite.
Ay, there's the diff'rence, you'll have all or none-
Allons sans badiner, 'tis all your own.

Papa consents, but now I heard him swear,
To see me married was his only care,
And is in such a haste-you know his way-

He vows (dear me !) a week he will not stay,

And swears (Lord bless him!) ere his scheme miscarry, He'd let the Devil himself his daughter marry.

Well, he's so good, I think I must obey,

So gen'rous too and fearful of delay

* A small mistake in the lady, for the gentleman leaving the south of France, for certain prudential reasons, had been a hair-dresser at one of our Universities for three years.

The only fortune which he asks is you,
But doubles mine, and 'tis enough for two.
Allons, mon cher amant, nor fear that I

Shall smile, or frown to hear your soul-felt sigh.
Time was I'd flutter, and I'd look away-

And, when you press'd too closely, whisper, nay:
Then the quick blush would damask all my cheek,
To hear you on the fluttering subject speak;
I was a simple girl, and knew not then
What love imported, and the vows of men.
Paris, sweet Paris has enlarg'd my mind ;*
In Paris only, Love is never blind:
Your sighs shall now be music in my ears,
And my soft lips shall drink up all your tears;
Your former sufferings claim a kind return-
Then reap the harvest you have toil'd to earn.
Now la douce tendresse of the feeling heart
Et toute la gaieté de cœur's my part.
Old halls I now detest, and maiden aunts,
Nor tremble, chicken-like, at gay gallants.
Well then, that odious Oxford leave for me,
For I'll your tutor and
your bursar be.
With musty fellows can sweet Love abide,
Their wit a pun at most, their learning pride,
Treason their politics, their Christian zeal
To break a sceptic on the bigot's wheel,

essays.

* With the auxiliary instructions of English novels and Caledonian My hand, too heavy for portraying this debonair miss, would have been much heavier, had I not previously glanced my eyes over the poems of Lady M. W. M.

Their sense but quibbling, and their high-day sport
A raw-bon'd hack, and oplate Boods of port?
Chain'd as their books, their minds but gather dust,
And genus dere ies cank'ring into rust.
Their alina mater, in her antique vest,

Is a stiff dame, une vulgaire je proteste.
Down with those old academies and new—
The sears of Greece had but a vapour view,
And Christian sages, till this noon of light,
But slowly grop'd beneath the lag of night.
From Tweed and Seine what bright discoveries flow,
That wisely teach us we can nothing know;
Of false and true combine one misty mass,
Prove Reason vain, and Newton's self an ass.
No modish fashions Oxford boasts her own,
London's the university alone;

There life runs easy, there the scholar knows,
Not how the old world, but the new one goes;
There pliant maxims give us pow'r to move,
And teach the only science, that of love-
Love, at whose beck the varying Fashions wait,
And Wisdom lackeys at his chair of state,
Her tribute brings of wit and soft addresses,
Whilst Lux'ry laps him in her warm caresses.
Here true professors charm ennui away,
Hume the serene, and Gibbon toujours gaie.
Leave then your logic, puns, and muddy port,
Not ill exchang'd for London's piquant sport—
One evening spent with Bels esprits and beaux,
Will teach you more than Lowth or Markham knows.

BRITANNICUS TO PARISIA.

AH! how delicious, as one sips the tea,
To hear your witlings urge the devil's plea,
Turn wrong to right, then mix 'em both together,
Now teach adult'ry, now adjust your feather!
'Tis true our Oxford boasts of no such fellows
As these fine bels esprits of which you tell us :
If one pert puppy should be so polite,

Post-haste we pack him-such our prudish fright;
Too unrefin'd his modish wit to brook,

We dash him instant from the buttery book.
We teach old maxims, neither less or more,
Than Locke, or humble Hooker taught before.
Those fograms, quizzes, treats, and bores, and gigs,
Were held in some account with ancient prigs,
When starch'd-out Virtue mov'd with modest pace,
And really thought in Atheism some disgrace.
Your new love-lectures here are very kind,
Since Love in academic shade walks blind:

*

'Tis a black grove, where nought but yew-trees grow, Thick-branch'd above, and in a formal row.

* Barbarous terms of the day, adopted by the great vulgar, and borrowed, it seems, most spitefully by Britannicus, out of Mademoiselle's vocabulary.

Gg

Here, as I saunter'd in this month of May,
I met him rambling in his wonted way:
Prithee, dear Love, I said, be not so shy,
I'm not too old to bear you company,
Virgil and Ovid I have read in part,
But all Tibullus I can say by heart.

Your bus'ness, sir, with me, replied the child-
Quick was his speech, but yet I saw he smil'd:
Encourag'd by his smile, I 'gan i.npart
The tender movements of my love-sick heart,
Parisia painted with a partial zeal,

Wish'd a resembling passion she might feel,
And crav'd the god to give my sorrows ease,
Or teach me more successful arts to please.
Soon, Cupid cry'd, I'll give thy breast repose,
For now Parisia claims no more thy woes:
She, tender maid, that blush'd to know thy flame,
Yet inly conscious that she felt the same,
Now trips, all artful, on the banks of Seine,
A British maid no more in heart and mien;

A vain coquette, she plies her dang'rous part,
beau possesses all her heart :

And a gay

And something more, he said, that shall be guess'd— Suffice, the god departed, and my breast

Is now, chaste Par'sy, perfectly at rest.

Well, all-accomplish'd nymph, and grown so wise,

So very knowing, might a friend advise,
I'd lose no time the marriage-knot to tie-
But where's the man?-myself, or dear Dubois ?
Once, once, Parisia-but my soul disdains

To think how fondly once she hugg'd your chains;