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With good dog-Latin epitaph,

Half humorous, pathetic half,

That they who read may weep and laugh, And say, 'Alas! poor Dandy!""

WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE.

ODE.

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O! where the gaily vestur'd throng,
Fair learning's train, are seen,
Wedg'd in close ranks, her wall along,
And up her benches green.

Unfolded to their mental eye
Thy awful form, Sublimity!
The moral teacher shows-
Sublimity of Silence born,
And Solitude 'mid caves forlorn,
And dimly vision'd woes;

Or Stedfast Worth, that inly great

Mocks the malignity of fate.

While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet sound
Murmurs the crowded room around,
And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions,
Exulting hails her new dominions.
Oh! both on me your influence shed,
Dwell in my heart and deck my head!

Where'er a broader, browner shade,
The shaggy beaver throws,
And with the ample feather's aid
O'ercanopies the nose;

Where'er with smooth and silken pile,

Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile,

The crimson velvet glows;

From some high bench's giddy brink,
Clinton with me begins to think

(As bolt upright we sit)

That dress, like dogs, should have its day,
That beavers are too hot for May,
And velvets quite unfit.

Then taste, in maxims sweet, I draw
From her unerring lip;

How light, how simple are the straw,
How delicate the chip!

Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice,
The audience melt away,

I fly to fix

my final choice

And bless th' instructive day.

The milliner officious pours

Of hats and caps her ready stores,

The unbought elegance of spring;
Some wide, disclose the full round face,
Some shadowy, lend a modest grace
And stretch their sheltering wing.

Here clustering grapes appear to shed
Their luscious juices on the head,
And cheat the longing eye;

So round the Phrygian monarch hung
Fair fruits, that from his parched tongue
For ever seem'd to fly.

Here early blooms the summer rose;

Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows;
Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes-
Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!
Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!
Mine be the chip of purest white,

Swan-like, and as her feathers light

When on the still wave spread;

And let it wear the graceful dress
Of unadorned simpleness.

Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;
Ah! hope indulged in vain;
Of modest fancy cheaply bought,
A stranger yet to Payne.

With undissembled grief I tell,-
For sorrow never comes too late,—
The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall
Is sold for £1 8s.

To Calculation's sober view,
That searches ev'ry plan,
Who keep the old, or buy the new,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the shabby and the gay
Must meet the sun's meridian ray ;
The air, the dust, the damp.
This, shall the sudden shower despoil;
That, slow decay by gradual soil;
Those, envious boxes cramp.

Who will, their squander'd gold may pay;
Who will, our taste deride;
We'll scorn the fashion of the day
With philosophic pride.

Methinks me thus, in accents low,
Might Sydney Smith address,
"Poor moralist! and what art thou,
Who never spoke of dress!"

"Thy mental hero never hung
Suspended on a tailor's tongue,
In agonizing doubt;

Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd,
Who languish'd for the newest mode,
Yet dar'd to live without."

CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE.

TO LADY CARTERET.

ROM India's burning clime I'm brought,
With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.
Not Iris when she paints the sky,

Can show more different hues than I;
Nor can she change her form so fast,
I'm now a sail, and now a mast.

I here am red, and there am green,
A beggar there, and here a queen.
I sometimes live in house of hair,
And oft in hand of lady fair.

I please the young, I grace the old,
And am at once both hot and cold.
Say what I am then, if you can,

And find the rhyme, and you're the man.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

AN ANSWER.

OUR house of hair and lady's hand,
At first did put me to a stand.
I have it now-'tis plain enough-
Your hairy business is a muff.

Your engine fraught with cooling gales,
At once so like your masts and sails;
Your thing of various shape and hue
Must be some painted toy, I knew;
And for the rhyme to you're the man,
What fits it better than a fan?

DR. SHERIDAN.

GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.

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OOD night to the Season! 'Tis over!
Gay dwellings no longer are gay;
The courtier, the gambler, the lover
Are scattered like swallows away:

There's nobody left to invite one
Except my good uncle and spouse;
My mistress is bathing at Brighton,
My patron is sailing at Cowes :
For want of better employment,
Till Ponto and Don can get out,
I'll cultivate rural enjoyment,
And angle immensely for trout.

Good night to the Season!-the lobbies,
Their changes, and rumours of change,
Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,

And made all the Bishops look strange :
The breaches, and battles, and blunders,
Performed by the Commons and Peers;
The Marquis's eloquent blunders,
The Baronet's eloquent ears;
Denouncing of Papists and treasons,
Of foreign dominion and oats;
Misrepresentations of reasons,
And misunderstandings of notes.

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