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She. And don't irritate me!

He. Recollect, a lamb may be provoked to impatience, a saint to anger, a worm to turn again. Perpetual dropping of water will excavate marble in time ; but, I'm an exception to all these, yet my sweetness of temper may be sour'd. Don't provoke me. I'm cool_I'm a cucumber !

She. An onion !
He. Wormwood !
She. Horse radish!
He. Honey!
She. Mustard !
He. Lead!
She. Quicksilver !
He. Hang it, madam, I can't get a word in edgeways.
She. Yes, you can, sir, when you speak daggers.
He. Oh, dear—will your tongue never be worn out?

She. I hope not. It has been in constant use ever since I can remember, and it's as good as ever it was yet.

He. I see it is. You ill use it at all times and all ways, and I mean to say you 're no man

She. So do I, sir.
He. No, no; I mean
She. A single life has trouble,
He. But marriage makes it double.
She. Alas! Tom Tinder, did not you

Swear to love me ever true ? He. Here, my little angel, you see what a good humor I'm in again, and all in a moment, too, I'm the best-tempered man in existence, if you only know how to humor me. I'm something like a gun-I require to go through the whole process of priming and loading before I make any report.

She. Then 'tis a minute gun—always going off.

He. Don't be ill-natured in your remarks, I beg. You know I love you to distraction, that's the reason

She. You're always raving out at me so. Besides, you are often jealous of me—for if a gentleman only looks at me you blame me for it.

He. But its little use keeping up this incessant brawl, for if we were only resolved to live happy, who could not envy us our conjugality?

She. Well, then, I'm agreeable, but your temper-
He. You may always depend upon, and therefore-
She. Our life will be a pleasure,
He. And

shall be

my treasure.
She. You ’re my love,
He. You're my dove.


Authors of modern date are wealthy fellows ;

'Tis but to snip his locks they follow

Now the golden-haired Apollo.-
Invoking Plutus to puff up the bellows
Of inspiration, they distill

The rhymes and novels which cajole us,
Not from the Heliconian rill,

But from the waters of Pactolus.

Before this golden age of writers,

A Grub street garreteer existed,
One of the regular inditers

Of odes and poems to be twisted
Into encomiastic verses,
For patrons who have heavy purses.
Besides the Bellman's rhymes, he had
Others to let, both gay and sad,

All ticketed from A to Izzard;
And, living by his wits, I need not add,

The rogue was lean as any lizard.
Like a ropemaker's were his ways;

For still one line upon another

He spun, and, like his hempen brother,
Kept going backwards all his days.

Hard by his attic lived a chemist,

Or alchemist, who had a mighty

Faith in the elixir vitæ ;
And though unflattered by the dimmest
Glimpse of success, he still kept groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation,

Stupidly hoping,
To find the art of changing metals,
And guineas coin from pans and kettles,

By mystery of transmutation.
Our starving poet took occasion

To seek this conjuror's abode,

Not with encomiastic ode,
Or laudatory dedication,
But with an offer to impart,
For twenty pounds, the secret art,
Which should procure, without the pain

Of metals, chemistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,

And gratify his heart's desire.
The money paid, our bard was hurried

To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, somewhat sublimized and flurried,

Out of his chemical decorum,
Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,
And cried, as he secured the door,

And carefully put to the shutter“Now, now, the secret I implore;

Out with it-speak-discover-utter !" With grave and solemn look, the poet Cried—“ List—0, list! for thus I show it: Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,

Who still, though bless'd, new blessings crave, That we may all have what we like,

Simply by liking what we have."


Thus far we have run before the wind. An apothecary ! Make an apothecary of me! What! cramp my genius over a pestle and mortar! or mew me up in a shop, with an alligator stuffed, and a beggarly account of empty boxes! To be culling simples, and constantly adding to the bills of mortality! No! no! it will be much better to be pasted up in capitals “ The part of Romeo by a young gentleman, who never appeared on any stage before !” My ambition fires at the thought.—But hold! Mayn't I run some chance of failing in my attempt ? Hissed--pelted—laughed at—not admitted into the green-room! That will never do. Down, busy Fancydown, down! Try it again—loved by the women-envied by the men—applauded by the pit-clapped by the galleries admired by the boxes ! 6 Dear colonel, isn't he a charming creature ?" My lord, don't you like him of all things ? Makes love like an angel! What an eye he has ! Fine legs! I shall certainly go to his benefit.” Celestial sounds! And then I 'll get in with all the painters, and have myself put up in every print shop. In the character of Macbeth—" This is a sorry sight!" (Stands in an attitude. In the character of Richard—“Give me another horse! Bind up my wounds !" This will do rarely. And then I have a chance of getting well married. Oh, glorious thought! I will enjoy it, though but in fancy. But what 's o'clock? It must be almost nine. I'll away at once.

This is club night—the spouters are all met. Little think they I'm in town—they 'll be surprised to see Off I

and then for my marriage with my master Gargle's daughter!

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Limbs, do your office, and support me well;
Bear me to her, then fail me if you can.



Enter Old FICKLE AND TRISTRAM FICKLE. Old Fickle. What reputation, what honor, what profit, can accrue to you, from such conduct as yours ? One moment you tell me you are going to become the greatest musician in the world, and straight you fill my house with fiddlers.

Tristram. I am clear out of that scrape now, sir.

Old F. Then, from a fiddler, you are metamorphosed into a philosopher; and for the noise of drums, trumpets and hautboys, you substitute a vile jargon, more unintelligible than was ever heard at the Tower of Babel.

Tri. You are right, sir. I-have found out that philosophy is folly; so I have cut the philosophers of all sects, from Plato and Aristotle, down to the puzzlers of modern date.

Old F. How much had I to pay the cooper, the other day, for barrelling you up in a large tub, when you resolved to live like Diogenes ?

Tri. You should not have paid him anything, sir, for the tub would not hold. You see the contents are run out.

Old F. No jesting, sir; this is no laughing matter. Your follies have tired me out. I verily believe you have taken the whole round of arts and sciences in a month, and have been of fifty different minds in half an hour.

Tri. And, by that, shown the versatility of my genius.

Old F. Don't tell me of versatility, sir. Let me see a little steadiness. You have never yet been constant to anything but extravagance.

Tri. Yes sir, one thing more.
Old F. What is that, sir.
Tri. Affection for you. However my head


have wan. dered, my heart has always been constantly attached to the kindest of parents; and from this moment, I am resolved to lay my follies aside, and pursue that line of conduct which will be most pleasing to the best of fathers and of friends.

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