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Whit. Not so old neither. No man ought to be called old, friend Bates, if he is in health, spirits, and—

Bates. In his senses-which I should rather doubt, as I never saw you half so frolicsome in my life.

Whit. Never too old to learn, friend; and if I don't make use of my own philosophy now, I may wear it out in twenty years. I have been always bantered as of too grave a cast. You know, when I studied at Lincoln's Inn, they used to call me Young Wisdom.

Bates. And if they should call you Old Folly, it will be a much worse name.

Whit. No young jackanapes dares to call me so, while I have this friend at my side. (Touches his sword.

Bates. A hero, too! What, in the name of common sense, has come to you, my friend? High spirits, quick honor, a long sword, and a bag! You want nothing but to be terribly in love, and then you may sally forth Knight of the Woful Countenance. Ha, ha, ha!

Whit. Mr. Bates, the ladies, who are the best judges of countenances, are not of your opinion; and unless you'll be a little serious, I must beg pardon for giving you this trouble, and I'll open my mind to some more attentive friend.

Bates. Well, come; unlock, then, you wild, handsome, vigorous, young dog, you—I will please you, if I can.

Whit. I believe you never saw me look better, Frank, did you?

Bates. 0 yes, rather better forty years ago.

Whit.

What! when I was at Merchant Tailors' School? Bates. At Lincoln's Inn, Tom.

Whit. It can't be I never disguise my age; and next February I shall be fifty-four.

Bates. Fifty-four! Why, I am sixty, and you always licked me at school-though I believe I could do as much for you now; and, ecod! I believe you deserve it too.

Whit.

I tell

I tell you I am in my fifty-fifth year.

Bates. O, you are let me see we were together at Cambridge, Anno Domini twenty-five, which is near fifty years

ago. You came to the college, indeed, surprisingly young; and, what is more surprising, by this calculation you went to school before you was born,-you was always a forward child.

Whit. I see there is no talking or consulting with you in this humor; and so, Mr. Bates, when you are in a temper to show less of your wit, and more of your friendship, I shall consult with you.

Bates. Fare you well, my old boy-young fellow, I mean. When you have done sowing your wild oats, and have been blistered into your right senses; when you have half killed yourself with being a beau, and return to your woollen caps, flannel waistcoats, worsted stockings, cork soles, and galoches, I am at your service again. So, bon jour to you, Monsieur Fifty-four. Ha, ha!

(Exit.

Whit. He has certainly heard of my affair. But he is old and peevish; he wants spirits and strength of constitution to conceive my happiness. I am in love with the widow, and must have her. Every man knows his own wants. Let the world laugh, and my friends stare!—let 'em call me imprudent and mad, if they please! I live in good times, and among people of fashion; so none of my neighbors, thank Heaven, can have the assurance to laugh at me.

THE PLEASURES OF A PIC-NIC PARTY.--HOOD.

IF sick of home and luxuries,

You want a new sensation,

And sigh for the unwonted ease

Of unaccommodation

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The servants and provision cart
As gaily trotting after.

The spot is reach'd—when all exclaim,
With many a joyous antic-

"How sweet a scene! I'm glad we came !

How rural! how romantic !"

Half starved with hunger, parch'd with thirst,
All haste to spread the dishes,
When, lo! 'tis found the ale had burst
Among the loaves and fishes!
Over the pie a sudden hop

The grasshoppers are skipping;
Each roll's a sponge, each loaf a mop,
And all the meat is dripping!

Bristling with broken glass, you find
Some cakes among the bottles-
Which those may eat who do not mind
Excoriated throttles!

The biscuits now are wiped and dried,
When squalling voices utter-
"Look! look! a toad has got astride
Our only pot of butter!"

Your solids in a liquid state,

Your cooling liquids heated,

And ev'ry promis'd joy by fate
Most fatally defeated.

All, save the serving-men, are soured

They smirk the cunning sinnersHaving, before they came, devoured Most comfortable dinners!

Still you assume, in very spite,
A grim and gloomy sadness;
Pretend to laugh-affect delight-
And scorn all show of sadness!

While thus you smile, but storm within,
A storm without comes faster,
And down descends, in deafening din,
A deluge of disaster.

'Tis sauve que peut-the fruit desert
Is fruitlessly deserted;

And homeward now you all revert,
Dull, desolate, and dirtied!
Each gruffly grumbling, as he eyes
His soaked and sullen brother-
"If these are pic-nic pleasantries,
Preserve me from another !"

THE BUTTERFLY BEAU.-ANON.

I'm a volatile thing, with exquisite wing,
Sprinkled o'er with the tints of the rainbow;
All the butterflies swarm to behold my sweet form,
Though the grubs may all vote me a vain beau.

I

my toilet go through with rose-water dew,

And each blossom contributes its essence;

Then—all fragrance and grace, not a plume out of place, I adorn the gay world with my presence—

In short, you must know,

I'm the butterfly beau.

At first I enchant a fair Sensitive plant,
Then I flirt with the Pink of perfection;
Then I seek a sweet Pea, and I whisper, "For thee
I have long felt a strong predilection":

A Lily I kiss, and exult in my bliss,

But I very soon search for a new lip;

And I pause in my flight, to exclaim with delight— "O, how dearly I love you, my Tulip !"

In short, you must know,

I'm the butterfly beau.

Thus forever I rove, and the honey of love
From cach delicate blossom I pilfer,—
But though many I see pale and pining for me,

I know none that are worth growing ill for;
And though I must own, there are some that I've known,
Whose external attractions are splendid,

On myself I must doat, for in my pretty coat, .
All the tints of the garden are blended;—

In short, you must know,

I'm the butterfly beau!

MISS MARY-WHAT SHE IS, AND WHAT SHE DOES.-ANON.

MISS MARY is a charming maid,

A comely lass is she;

She every morning coffee drinks,
At evening, sips her tea.

She's never gadding in the street,
But loves to stay at home,
Her eyes are parted by her nose-
Her ringlets by a comb.

She has a very pretty foot,

And sometimes wears prunella;
On sunny days she sports a shawl-
On rainy, an umbrella.

She's virtue's self personified

She scorns to do a wrong;

She keeps her tongue between her teeth,
Where's people's tongues belong.

The poor have always found her kind,
She weeps for other's woe;

On Sunday eve she sits alone,
Unless she has a beau!

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