Latin Learning of little Use*.

YOUR venerable chaplain once,
(Though now with age he bend)

Train'd here the scholar, lash'd the dunce,

A master and a friend.

To profit by his well-known care,
His child a butcher brought;
And all the needful to prepare,
A dictionary bought.

Before a week its course had run,

The butcher came again:

"Take back your book, give back my son," He cried with might and main. "Larning!" 'tis money thrown away, Such larning to procure; The book don't show, the boy can't say, What's Latin-for a skewer."

More's meant than meets the Ear.

WHEN doctors, twenty years ago,
Wore wigs of venerable flow,

A bodkin-sword's diminutive stump,
Stuck right across each physic rump;
Whose short dimensions seem'd to say,
"Our object is to save, not slay."
An emblem apt enough, I trow:
But wicked wits pretend to show,
For swords so small, an apter still,
"We've other ways than one to kill."

Nothing new under the Sun. THERE's nothing new beneath the sun, So ancient wits' decisions run:

But wit no match for facts is; For I know things, and so do you, Though everlasting, ever new!

What think you, Sir, of taxes?

Ancient and Modern Poets distinguished. "TWIXT those poets of old, and our poets of late,

One perpetual distinction holds true:

The new, in a twinkling, are all out of date, The old-will for ever be new !

The Power of Verse.

READ! read! the thread-bare poet cries,
New powers of verse I bring:
At every line new beauties rise
Spontaneous while I sing!

Poet! thy boast would seem more true,
One fact if thou couldst quote;
Had powers and beauties all so new
Procur'd thee-a new coat!

Spoken at Merchant Taylors' School.

The Progress of Wigs.

WHEN Charles the First the sceptre bore,

Each grave divine, I trow,

A silken cap all sable wore,

With nine straight hairs below. The Restoration's jovial day

Chang'd, with the men, the mode,
And orth'dox heads, in broad display,
The flaxen buckle show'd.

In Anna's reign, from general view
Th' enormous flaxens fled:
And lo! perukes of milk-white hue
Succeeded in their stead.

These too incurr'd, by lapse of years,
Disuse, though not disgrace;
New clerical brows requir'd new gears,
And grizzles took their place.
Yet still the wig's full form retain'd
The feather'd foretop's peak:
Yet still the solemn bush remain'd
To flank the rosy cheek.

But now! forgive the conscious muse,
That feels her verse too bold:
What fashions modern reverends use,

You need not here be told.

Though new their taste, while they adopt Their good forefathers' ways;

The frizz'd, the curl'd, the bald, the cropt, Have all their claim to praise.

The Effect of Pulpit Eloquence.

A VETERAN gambler, in a tempest caught, Once in his life a church's shelter sought, Where many a hint pathetically grave, On life's precarious lot the preacher gave. The sermon ended, and the storm all spent, Home trudg'd old Cog-die, reasoning as he [declar'd, "Strict truth," quoth he, “this rev'rend sage I feel conviction, and will be prepar'd; Nor e'er henceforth, since life thus steals away, Give credit for a bet-beyond a day!"

went.

Case in the Constitutional Court.

A FARMER, as records report,
Most hugely discontented,
His vicar at the Bishop's Court
For gross neglect presented.

"Our former priest, my Lord," he said, Each Sunday the year round,

Some Greek in his discourses read,
And charming was the sound!
Not such our present parson's phrase,
No Greek does he apply;
But says in English all he says,
As you might speak, or I.
And yet for this so simple style,
He claims each tithe and due;
Pigs, pippins, poultry, all the while,
And Easter, off rings too!"

"You're skill'd in languages, I guess," Th' amaz'd diocesan cry'd :

"I know no language, more nor less," The surly clown reply'd:

"But Greek, I've heard the learned say, Surpasses all the rest;

And since 'tis for the best we pay,
We ought to have the best."

All not Gold that glitters.

WHY sleeps, benumb'd, the conscious mind, When social good craves virtue's zeal; Whoe'er can benefit mankind,

Is Heav'n's trustee, for human weal. To hide true worth from public view, Is burying diamonds in their mine: All is not gold that shines, 'tis true;

But all that is gold-ought to shine!

On Hope. ANON.

HOPE, heav'n-born cherub, still appears,
Howe'er misfortune seems to lower :
Her smile the threat'ning tempest clears,
And is the rainbow of the shower.

A LONG way off Lucinda strikes the men ;
As she draws near,

And one sees clear,
A long way off-one wishes her again.

On a Person not celebrated for his Veracity. On Tuesday next, says Tom to Ned, I'll dine with you and take a bed. You may believe him, Will replies, Where'er Tom dines he always LIES.

By Mr. P. DoDd.

JOE hates a hypocrite. It shows Self-love is not a fault of Joe's.

To a living Author.

YOUR Comedy I've read, my friend,
And like the half you pilfer'd best;
But sure the piece you yet may mend:
Take courage, man! and steal the rest.

Imitated from the French. By Mr. P. DODD.

His last great debt is paid-poor Tom's no

more,

Last debt? Tom never paid a debt before.

By THEOPHILUS SWIFT, Esq.

The rooted aversion entertained by the late Judge Robinson, of the King's Bench, in Ireland, to the volunteers of that country, in the year 1780, is well known. The following epigram was occasioned by a circumstance that actually took place about that period in the court where he was then sitting.

THAT soldier so rude, he swaggers in scarlet;

Put him out of the court; I'll imprison the varlet."

"A soldier I'm not," quoth the hero in red; “No soldier, my Lord, but an officer I, A captain who carries his sword on his thigh." Stern Robinson then, with sarcastical sneer, Roll'd his sharp-eagle eye on the vain volunteer, And, "Tipstaff," he cried, as the captain grew bolder,

"Out, out with that officer who is no soldier."

Bargains.

at Sea.

WHAT to the faithless ocean now is due? It gave one Venus, and has taken two!

On a natural Grotto, near a deep Stream. HEALTH, rose-lipp'd cherub, haunts this spot, She slumbers oft in yonder nook: If in the shade you find her not, Plunge and you'll find her in the brook!

On a Lady who beat her Husband. COME hither, Sir George, my picture is here, What think you, my love? don't it strike you? "I can't say it does, just at present, my dear, But I think it soon will, it's so like you."

What is an Epigram. WHAT is an epigram? a dwarfish whole: Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

With rival dames at auctions vies; Is charm'd with ev'ry thing she sees, And ev'ry thing she sees she buys. Ned feels at ev'ry sale enchanted,

Such costly wares! so wisely sought! Bought because they may be wanted, Wanted because they may be bought.

A Question and an Answer. JACK drinks fine wines, wears modish clothing,

But, prithee, where lies Jack's estate?-
In Algebra, for there I found of late
A quantity call'd less than nothing.

On a ready Writer. JEM writes his verses with more speed Than the printer's boy can set 'em. Quite as fast as we can rad,

And only not so fast as we forget 'em.

The Thief.

I tell, with equal truth and grief,
That little Kitt 's an arrant thief.
Before the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And more-that whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn;
Stole all the softness Ether pours
On primrose buds, in vernal show'rs.

There's no repeating all her wiles:
She stole the Graces winning smiles;
'Twas quickly seen she robb'd the sky,
To plant a star in either eye;
She pilfer'd orient pearl for teeth,
And stole the cow's ambrosial breath;
The cherry, steep'd in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils; a store
To which, in time, she added more:
At twelve she stole from Cyprus' Queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole Juno's dignity; and stole,
From Pallas, sense to charm the soul;
She sung-amaz'd the Syrens heard,
And to assert their voice appear'd;
She play'd-the Muses from their hill
Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill;
Apollo's wit was next her prey,

And then rise beams that light the day;
While Jove, her pilfering threats to crown,
Pronounc'd these beauties all her own,
Pardon'd her crimes, and prais'd her art;
And t'other day she stole my heart.
Cupid! if lovers are thy care,
Revenge thy votary on the fair;
Do justice on her stolen charms,
And let her prison be-my arms.

Beauty's Value. SHAKSPEARE. BEAUTY is but a vain, a fleeting good, A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; A flow'r that dies when almost in the bud, A brittle glass that breaketh presently. A fleeting good, a gloss, a glass, a flow'r, Lost, faded, broken, dead, within an hour. As goods when lost we know are seldom found, As fading gloss no rubbing can excite; As flow'rs when dead are trampled on the ground,

As broken glass no cement can unite; So beauty, blemish'd once, is ever lost, In spite of physic, painting, pains, and cost.

On the frequent Defeats of the French Army in the last War. An Epigram. 1760. THE toast of each Briton in war's dread alarms, O'er bottle or bowl, is success to our arms. Attack'd, put to flight, and soon forc'd from each trench, Success to our legs is the toast of the French.

Epitaph on a Scolding Wife. HERE lies my wife; poor Molly! let her lie: She finds repose at last-and so do I.