SONNET III. ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY. AND this reft house is that, the which he built, NEHEMIAHI HIGGINBOTTOM. SONNET. BY MR. ANSTEY. TO MY OLD WIG. Aliquisque malo fuit usus in illo. Written in the Year 1795. Ан, me! full sorely doth it rend my heart, And think how soon, unpowder'd, we must part! And much it grieves me, that thy brothers twain, MALUS and PEJOR (both the offspring fair Of ORCHARD's + plastic hand,) thy fate must share, Nor, graceful, wave their mealy locks again! Yet doth my soul a secret solace find (Such solace as the wise and patient know, Who taste the blessings which from evils flow,) That thou, to PRIAPEAN head consign'd, Shalt scare voracious crows-and, all unflour'd, Protect the grain thy hungry caul devour'd. PESSIMUS, the oldest of the Author's three perriwigs, to which he hath for some time assigned the names of MALUS, PEJOR, and PESSIMUS. Mr. WALTER ORCHARD, peruke-maker, in Bath, and patentee of the celebrated elastic wigs. ODE TO THE GERMAN DRAMA. DAUGHTER of Night, chaotic Queen! The audience taste the joys of hell; And Britain's sons indignant groan With pangs unfelt before at crimes before unknown. When first, to make the nations stare, Who, thoughtless of her own, embrac'd fictitious woe. Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly Fair Comedy's theatric brood; Light satire, wit, and harmless joy, And leave us dungeons, chains, and blood; Swift they disperse, and with them go Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe, Congreve averts th' indignant eye, And Shakspeare mourns to view th' exotic prodigy. Ruffians in regal mantle dight, Maidens immers'd in thought profound, Spectres that haunt the shades of night, And spread a waste of ruin round: These form thy never-varying theme, While buried in thy Stygian stream, Religion mourns her wasted fires, And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses and expires. O mildly o'er the British stage, Great Anarch, spread thy sable wings; Not fired with all the frantic rage With which thou hurl'st thy darts at kings, By Despot arts immur'd in ghastly poverty. In specious form, dread Queen, appear, To fire the brain, corrupt the taste. Establish'd order spurn, and call each outcast friend. TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE. A TALE. As Yorkshire Humphrey t'other day Numps gazing stood, and, wond'ring how A sharper, prowling near the spot, And soon with fish-hook finger turns Numps feels the twitch, and turns around The thief, with artful leer, Says, "Sir, you'll presently be robb'd, For pick-pockets are near." Quoth Numps, "I don't fear London thieves, "I'se not a simple youth; "My guinea, Measter's, safe enow: "I've put'n in ma mouth!" |