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walking, or running, leaning or standing, waking or sleeping, eating, or drinking, or whatsoever thing he does: besides, we separate him from the threshold and all good prayers of the church; from the participation of the holy Jesus; from all sacramental chapels and altars ; from the holy bread and holy water, from all the merit of God's holy priests and religious men; from their cloisters; and from all pardons, privileges, grants and immunities, which all the holy Popes have granted them; and we give him over utterly to the fiend, and let him quench his soul when dead in the pains of hell fire, as this candle is quenched and put out; and let us pray to God, our Lady, St. Peter and St. Paul, that all the senses of his body may fail, as now the light of this candle is gone, except he come on sight hereof, and openly confess his damnable heresy and blasphemy, and by repentance, as much as in him lies, to God, our Lady, St. Peter, and the worshipful company of this church; and as the staff of this holy cross now falls down, so may he, except he recants and repents. Signed,

Philip Dunn."


To the Printer of the London Evening Post.Sir.-Asa proof how little regard the king's friends (as the present administration are pleased to style themselves) pay to the honour of their sovereign and religion, a living of three hundred pounds per annum was lately procured for a Scotch curate, who had fallen into disgrace with his parishioners from a public discovery of his gallantries. For some time the most respectable inhabitants abhorred going to church to hear him preach a doctrine so different from his own practice. The immorality of the 'curate was, however, soon lost in the rector, and his church became more crowded than ever; which shews that fortune makes a saint, and misfortune and poverty a sinner.

Shall it be said, in the pious reign of George the Third, that church preferment, like court favour, goes by kissing? Heaven forbid !


Anecdote of Sir Isaac Newton.—The late Doctor Stukely, one day, by appointment visiting Sir Isaac Newton, the servant said he was in his study. No one was permitted to disturb him there : but as it was near his dinner time, the visitor sat down to wait for him. After a while dinner was brought in ; a boiled chicken under a cover. An hour passed, and Sir Isaac did not appear. The Doctor then eat the fowl; and covering up the empty dish, bid them dress their máster another. Before that was ready, the great man came down: he apologized for his delay, and added, “ give me but leave to take my short dinner, and I shall be at your service; I am fatigued and faint.” Saying this, he lifted up the cover; and without any emotion, turned about to Stukely with a smile,“ see,” says he, “ what we studious people are, I forgot I had dined.”

Extempore, on passing Bloomsbury Square,

Friday, May 17.
Hey! borse and foot, and grenadiers,
To hinder riot needless fears.
The famísh'd weavers mean no evil,

They only want the B—-—d level. The following copy of Verses on the death of the Regent of France, was written just after the decease of that Prince, and while his Majesty was at Hanover. 1753.

How vain are mortal man's endeavours !
(Said, at Dame Elliot's, Master T -rs)
Good Orleans dead! In truth its hard,
Oh may all statesmen die prepared!
Ah friends! Great changes threat the land; .
All France and England at a stand!
There's Mereweis— Mark! Strange work!
And there's the Czar, and there's the Turk!
I do foreseė, (and for foreseeing,
He equals any man in being)
The army ne'er can be disbanded,
I wish the King were safely landed.
The Pope. - An Indian merchant by,
Cut short the speech with this reply.
All at a stand! You see great changes !
Ab, Sir, you never saw the Ganges !
There dwell the nations of Quid-nunc-kies,
(So Monopota calls monkies.)
On either bank, from bough to bough,

They meet and chat (as we may now)
Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug,
They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug.
And just as chance, or wind provokes them,
They either bite their friends, or stroke them.
There have I seen some active prig,
To shew his parts, bestride a twig.

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Lord! how the chattering tribe admire,
Not that he's wiser, but he's bigher :
All long to try the vent'rous thing,
(For powers but to have one's swing,)
From side to side he springs, he spurns,
And bangs bis foes and friends by turns.
Thus as in giddy freaks he bounces,
Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces: .
Down the swift stream the wretch is born,
Never--Ah never to return!

d s what a fall had our dear brother,
Morblew! Cries one, and damme! t'other.
The nations give a general screech,
None cocks his tail, none claws his breech :
Each trembles for the public weal,
And for a while forgets to steal.
A while all eyes intent and steady,
Pursue him whirling down the eddy ;
But, out of mind, when out of view,
Some other mounts the twig a-new.
And business on each monkey shore,
Runs the same track it went before.

The celebrated author of the Dissertation on Dumpling seems to have forgot one material embellishment to his elaborate essay, which he is desired to prefix to his next edition, by way of appendix. .

When as King Henry rul'd this land,

He ruled like a King,
He stole three pecks of barley meal,

To make a bag pudding.
A bag pudding this King did make,

And stuff'd' it full of plumbs,
With gobs of suet put therein,

As big as both my thumbs.

The King and Queen did eat full sore,

The nobles eke beside,
And what that night they cou'dn't devour,

Next morning it was fry’d.

N. B. This was taken from a manuscript in the Cotton Library, and is set to music by the learned Count Heydaker, to be sung in Masquerade on Seigniora Faustina's benefit night.

On the Death of Dr. Young.

Hic saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere. -

Ah, fatal hour! at last we must resign;
Farewell, blest Poet, Satyrist, Divine !
For ever shall remain thy sacred name,
Nor envy's tongue pollute thy spotless fame.
From this sad world thy blessed soul is flown,
To live in regions properly its own;
Immortal glories all thy time employ,
Eternal pleasures, everlasting joy.
Methinks I bear thee tune thy pleasing lyre
In that blest place, where angels lead the choir.
Hail, happy saint! thine is eternal day,
When this low world shall pass with time away.
Lo! holy angels sing with one accord,
Welcome good shepherd, meet thy gracious Lurd.


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Last week the following new invented politic scheme for getting a dram, was practised upon a grocer on the Blind Quay. A woman desired a quart of brandy might be put into a bottle which she brought with her ; but on trial there being

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