new or second hand, I conceive they are not im proper at this juncture.

In Æsop's famous world of wit,

Your's, &c.

When beasts could talk, and read and write,
And say and do as he thought fit;
A fellow thought himself abus'd,
And represented by an ass;
And Æsop to the judge accus'd,
"That he defam'd was."

Friend, quoth the judge, how do you know

Whether you was defam'd or no?

How can you tell, that he does mean

You, rather than another man?

Oh, Sir, says he, it needs must be,

All circumstances so agree,

And all the neighbours says 'tis me.`
That's something, quoth the judge indeed!-
However, let this matter pass;

Since 'twas not Æsop, 'tis agreed,
But Application made the ass.

The breeze her well-turn'd ancle shew'd,
One hand her cloak fast held,
Her colour'd ribbons gaily flow'd,
Her heart tumultuous swell'd;
With eager step she reach'd the pier,
And found the towering vessel near.

And now with agitated mien,

The sun-burnt crew she eyed,
No Ben, alas! could there be seen,

"Ah! where's my love?" she cried: At length his well-known voice she heard, High mounted on the pendant yard.

Now sparkling joy and trembling fear
In Kate's blue eyes were found,
While Ben survey'd the crowded pier,
And pass'd his gasket round;
Their eyes soon met-they smiling gaz'd,
And each th' expressive hand uprais'd.

The canvas furl'd, with ardour strong,
Swift to his love he press'd,
And there, amidst the tittering throng,
He strain'd her to his breast;

"And do I fold thee, Kate ?" he cried, And "Oh! my Ben," she faint replied.

And now behold, with heart as light
As is the salt-sea foam,

And eyes with rapture beaming bright,
The tar safe moor'd at home;
And here, tho' whirling storms arise,
In Kate's fond arm secure he lies.

A Reckoning with Time, by George Colman, the

Younger.

Come on, old Time!--nay, that is stuff;-
Gaffer! thou com'st on fast enough;

Wing'd foe to feather'd Cupid!
But tell me, Sand-man! ere thy grains
Have multiplied upon my brains,
So thick to make me stupid;—

Tell me, Death's journeyman!--but no ;
Hear thou my speech;-I will not grow
Irrev'rent while I try it;

For, though I mock thy flight, 'tis said,
Thy forelock fills me with such dread,
I never take thee by it.

List, then, old Is-Was-and-To Be!
I'll state accounts 'twixt thee and me:-
Thou gav'st me, first, the measles;
With teething, would'st have ta’en me off,
Then mad'st me, with the hooping cough,
Thinner than fifty weazles.

Thou gav'st me small pox (the dragon now,
That Jenner combats on a cow);

And, then, some seeds of knowledge;
Grains of grammar, which the flails

Of pedants thrash upon our tails,
To fit us for a college.

And, when at Christ Church, 'twas thy sport
To rack my brains, with sloe-juice port,
And lectures out of number :-

There Fresh-man Folly quaffs, and sings,
While graduate Dulness clogs thy wings
With mathematic lumber.

Thy pinions, next (which, while they wave, Fan all our birth-days to the grave),

I think, ere it was prudent,

Balloon'd me, from the schools, to town,
Where I was parachuted down,

A dapper Temple-student.

Then, much in dramas did I look;
Much slighted thee, and great Lord Coke;
Congreve beat Blackstone hollow;
Shakespeare made all the statutes stale,
And, in my crown, no pleas had Hale,
To supersede Apollo.

Ah, Time! those raging heats I find,
Were the mere dog-star of my mind;
How cool is restrospection!
Youth's gaudy summer-solstice o'er,
Experience yields a mellow store;
An autumn of reflection!

Why did I let the god of song
Lure me from law to join his throng-
Gull'd by some slight applauses?
What's verse to A when versus B?
Or what John Bull, a comedy,

To pleading John Bull's causes?

But, though my childhood felt disease,
Though my lank purse, unswoll'n by fees;
Some ragged muse has netted-
Still, honest Chronos! 'tis most true,
To thee (and, faith, to others, too!
I'm very much indebted:

For thou hast made me gaily tough,
Inured me to each day that's rough

In hopes of calm to-morrow ;-
And when, old Mower of us all,
Beneath thy sweeping scythe I fall,
Some few dear friends will sorrow.

Then, though my idle prose or rhyme,
Should half an hour outlive me, Time,

Pray bid the stone engravers,
Where'er my bones find church-yard room,

Simply to chisel on my tomb,

"Thank Time for all his favours!"

A Speech made by Johnny Martyn, of Norwich, a wealthy, honest man, after Mr. Mayor's Dinner.

Maister Mayor of Norwich, and it please your worship, you have feasted us like a king, God

Your beer is plea

catch us by the And so huzza for

bless the queen's grace. We have fed plentifully, and now whilum I can speak plain English, I heartily thank you, Master Mayor; and so do we all, answer boys, answer. sant and potent, and will soon caput, and stop our manners. the queen majesty's grace, and all her bonny browed dames of honour. Huzza for Master Mayor, and our good Dame Mayoress. His noble Grace, there he is, God save him, and all this jolly company! To all our friends round the county, who have a penny in their purse, and an