She likes herself, yet 'others hates

For that which in herself she prizes ;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.

WILLIAM CONGREVE.

HYLLIDA, that loved to dream
In the grove, or by the stream ;

Sigh’d on velvet pillow.

What, alas ! should fill her head,
But a fountain, or a mead,

Water and a willow ?
Love in cities never dwells,
He delights in rural cells

Which sweet woodbine covers.
What are your assemblies then?
There, 'tis true, we see more men;

But much fewer lovers.

O, how changed the prospect grows !
Flocks and herds to fops and beaux,

Coxcombs without number!
Moon and stars that shone so bright ;
To the torch and waxen light,

And whole nights at ombre.
Pleasant as it is to hear
Scandal tickling in our ear,

E’en of our own mothers;
In the chit-chat of the day
To us is paid, when we're away,

What we lent to others.

Though the favourite Toast I reign,
Wine, they say, that prompts the vain,

Heightens defamation.
Must I live 'twixt spite and fear,
Every day grow handsomer,

And lose my reputation ?
Thus the fair to sighs gave way,
Her empty purse beside her lay.

Nymph, ah! cease thy sorrow.
Though curst fortune frown to-night,
This odious town can give delight
If you win to-morrow.

JOHN GAY.

ON A WOMAN OF FASHION.

hat;

HEN, behind, all my hair is done up in

a plat, And so, like a cornet's, tuck'd under

my Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark, And, follow'd by John, take the dust in High Park. In the

way

I

am met by some smart macaroni, Who rides by my side on a little bay ponyNo sturdy Hibernian, with shoulders so wide, But as taper and slim as the ponies they ride ; Their legs are as slim, and their shoulders no wider, Dear sweet little creatures, both pony and rider !

“But sometimes, when bold, I order my chaise,
And manage, myself, my two little greys:
Sure never were seen two such sweet little ponies,
Other horses are clowns, and these macaronies,

And to give them this title I'm sure isn't

wrong, Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so

long

" In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down, You know was the fashion before you left town: The thing's well enough, when allowance is made For the size of the trees and the depth of the

shade; But the spread of their leaves such a shelter

affords To those noisy impertinent creatures callid birds, Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene, Brings the country before me, and gives me the

spleen.

66

Yet, though 'tis too rural—to come near the

mark, We all herd in one walk, and that nearest the park, There with ease we may see, as we pass by the

wicket, The chimneys of Knightsbridge, and—footmen at

cricket. I must though, in justice, declare that the grass, Which, worn by our feet, is diminish'd apace, In a little time more will be brown and as flat As the sand at Vauxhall, or as Ranelagh mat. Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees, We may see rolls and butter spread under the

trees, With a small, pretty band in each seat of the

walk To play little tunes and enliven our talk.”

THOMAS TICKELL.

THE JILT.

AY, Lucy, what enamour'd spark
Now sports thee through the gazing

Park

In new barouche or tandem ;
And, as infatuation leads,
Permits his reason and his steeds

To run their course at random ?

Fond youth, those braids of ebon hair,
Which to a face already fair

Impart a lustre fairer;
Those locks which now invite to love,
Soon unconfin’d and false shall prove,

And changeful as the wearer.

Unpractised in a woman's guile,
Thou think'st, perchance, her halcyon smile

Portends unruffled quiet;
That, ever-charming, fond and mild,
No wanton thoughts, no passion wild,

Within her soul can riot.

Alas! how often shalt thou mourn
(If nymphs like her, so soon forsworn,

Be worth a moment's trouble),
How quickly own with sad surprise,
The paradise that bless'd thine eyes

Was painted on a bubble. In her accommodating creed A lord will always supersede

A commoner's embraces :

His lordship's love contents the fair,
Until enabled to ensnare

A nobler prize-his Grace's !
Unhappy are the youths who gaze,

,
Who feel her beauty's maddening blaze,

And trust to what she utters !
For me, by sad experience wise,
At
rosy

cheeks or sparkling eyes,
My heart no longer flutters.
Chamber'd in Albany, I view
On every side a jovial crew

Of Benedictine neighbours.
I sip my coffee, read the news,
I own no mistress but the muse,
And she
repays my

labours.
And should some brat her love bespeak
(Though illegitimate and weak

As these unpolish'd verses),
A father's joys shall still be mine,
Without the fear of parish fine,
Bills, beadles, quacks, or nurses.

JAMES SMITH.

DIXIT, ET IN MENSAM

The scene is a picnic, and Mr. Joseph de Clapham ventures to think that his fiancée, the lovely Belgravinia, is a little too fast.

OW don't look so glum and so sanctified,

please, For folks comme il faut, Sir, are always

at ease; How dare you suggest

talk is too free? Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.