He for that who tills and cultures, Now may laugh, but when Old Scratch Heaps of grain then let them hoard up ;— Are the Blessings of the Poor! John Collins. CCLXV. RICH AND POOR; OR, SAINT AND SINNER. THE poor man's sins are glaring; In the face of ghostly warning He is caught in the fact Of an overt act Buying greens on Sunday morning. The rich man's sins are hidden Of the children of light, Who are wise in their generation. The rich man has a kitchen, And thus becomes a sinner. The rich man has a cellar, And a ready butler by him; The poor must steer For his pint of beer Where the Saint can't choose but spy him. The rich man's painted windows Hide the concerts of the quality; The poor can but share The rich man is invisible In the crowd of his gay society; And a stench in the nose of piety. CCLXVI. Thomas L. Peacock, THE KISS. AMONG thy fancies, tell me this, It is a creature born and bred And makes more soft the bridal bed. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies, And stills the bride, too, when she cries. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, And here, and there, and everywhere. Has it a speaking virtue? Yes. How speaks it, say? Do you but this, Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; Has it a body? Aye, and wings, Love honey yields, but never stings. Robert Herrick. CCLXVII. My love and I for kisses play'd; She would keep stakes, I was content; But when I won she would be paid, This made me ask her what she meant ; Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain, Take your own kisses, give me mine again. William Strode. CCLXVIII. TO A KISS. SOFT child of Love-thou balmy bliss, Why thou so suddenly art gone, Lost in the moment thou art won? Yet, go for wherefore should I sigh ?— A thousand full as sweet as thee! CCLXIX. ON A KISS. John Wolcot. PHILOSOPHERS pretend to tell, Unknown. CCLXX. THE AUBURN LOCK. COME, lovely lock of Julia's hair, Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid, Of Julia's charms, O sacred part, Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid, And art thou mine? and did my fair Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid, CCLXXI. Unknown. ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET, A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC. WELL tried thro' many a varying year, Of every friendless name the friend. * In Misery's darkest cavern known, Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, His virtues walked their narrow round, Samuel Johnson. CCLXXII. MARIAN'S COMPLAINT. SINCE truth ha' left the shepherd's tongue, Adieu the dance at closing day, How oft he told me I was fair, No more his gifts of guile I'll wear, How oft he vow'd a constant flame, John Wolcot. |