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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 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.

the day.

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 wear it wherever I go ;
I 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, love,-

The richest of treasures below,-
If he's not what Orlando should be, love,

My own Araminta, say “No!”

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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” or “ Skinner,”

My own Araminta, say “No !"

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!”

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 ;
But give him a theme to write verse on,

And see if he turns out his toe ;
If he's only an excellent person, ---
My own Araminta, say “No!”

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

66 FAIR AMORET IS GONE ASTRAY."

[graphic]

AIR Amoret is gone astray,

Pursue, and seek her, every lover; I'll tell the signs by which you may

The wandering shepherdess discover. Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both studied, tho' both seem neglected ;
Careless she is, with artful care,

Affecting to seem unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them ; For she'd persuade they wound by chance,

Though certain aim and art direct them.

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