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MARRIAGE.

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WHAT, what is Marriage? Harris, Priscian,
Assist me with a definition.—

"Oh!" cries a charming silly fool,
Emerging from her boarding-school-

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Marriage is—love without disguises,
It is a-something that arises

From raptures and from stolen glances,
To be the end of all romances;

Vows-quarrels-—moonshine—babes—but hush !
I mustn't have you see me blush.”

"Pshaw!" says a modern modish wife,
"Marriage is splendour, fashion, life;
A house in town, and villa shady,
Balls, diamond bracelets, and my lady ;'
Then for finale, angry words,

Some people 's- -'obstinate 's-'absurd!'s

And peevish hearts, and silly heads,

And oaths, and 'bête's, and separate beds."

An aged bachelor, whose life

Has just been sweetened with a wife,

Tells out the latent grievance thus:
"Marriage is-odd! for one of us
'Tis worse a mile than rope or tree,
Hemlock, or sword, or slavery ;
An end at once to all our ways,
Dismission to the one-horse chaise ;
Adieu to Sunday can, and pig,

Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig ;

Our friends turn out,-our wife's are clapt in; 'Tis 'exit Crony,'-'enter Captain.'

Then hurry in a thousand thorns,—
Quarrels, and compliments,-and horns.
This is the yoke, and I must wear it ;
Marriage is-hell, or something near it!"

"Why, marriage," says an exquisite,
Sick from the supper of last night,
“Marriage is—after one by me!
I promised Tom to ride at three.-
Marriage is 'gad! I'm rather late;
La Fleur!-my stays! and chocolate !—
Marriage is really, though, 'twas hard
To lose a thousand on a card;

Sink the old Duchess !-three revokes !
'Gad! I must fell the Abbey oaks :
Mary has lost a thousand more!—
Marriage is 'gad! a cursed bore!"

Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan,
Rises indignant from his throne,
And mocks their self-reviling tears,
And whispers thus in Folly's ears :
"O frivolous of heart and head!
If strifes infest your nuptial bed,
Not Hymen's hand, but guilt and sin,
Fashion and folly, force them in ;
If on your couch is seated Care,
I did not bring the scoffer there ;
If Hymen's torch is feebler grown,
The hand that quenched it was your own;
And what I am, unthinking elves,

Ye all have made me for yourselves!"

HOW TO RHYME FOR LOVE.

AT the last hour of Fannia's rout,

When Dukes walked in, and lamps went out,
Fair Chloe sat; a sighing crowd

Of high adorers round her bowed,
And ever flattery's incense rose
To lull the idol to repose.

Sudden some Gnome that stood unseen,
Or lurked disguised in mortal mien,
Whispered in Beauty's trembling ear
The word of bondage and of fear—
"Marriage !"—her lips their silence broke,
And smiled on Vapid as they spoke,-
"I hate a drunkard or a lout,

I hate the sullens and the gout;
If e'er I wed-let danglers know it-
I wed with no one but a poet."

And who but feels a poet's fire
When Chloe's smiles, as now, inspire?

Who can the bidden verse refuse

When Chloe is his theme and Muse?

Thus Flattery whispered round;

Unwonted Muses were invoked

By pugilists and whips,

And many a belle looked half provoked

When favoured swains stood dumb and choked;

And warblers whined, and punsters joked,

And dandies bit their lips.

At last an old Ecclesiastic,

Who looked half kind, and half sarcastic,
And seemed in every transient look
At once to flatter and rebuke,

Cut off the sport with "Psha! enough:"
And then took breath,—and then took snuff:
"Chloe," he said, "you're like the moon;
You shine as bright, you change as soon;
Your wit is like the moon's fair beam,

In borrowed light 'tis o'er us thrown;
Yet, like the moon's, that sparkling stream
To careless eyes appears your own;
Your cheek by turns is pale and red,
And then, to close the simile,
(From which, methinks, you turn your head,
As half in anger, half in glee,)

Dark would the night appear without you,
And-twenty fools have rhymed about you!"

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