I cannot talk with civet in the room,
A fine puss-gentleman that's all perfume;
The sight's enough; no need to smell a beau:
Who trusts his nose into a raree-show?
His odoriferous attempts to please
Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of
bees,

But we that make no honey, though we sting,
Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing.
'Tis wrong to bring into a mixed resort

'Tis heavy, bulky and bids fair to prove An absent friend's fidelity and love; But when unpacked, your disappointment

groans

To find it stuffed with brickbats, earth and stones.

Some men employ their health—an ugly trick

In making known how oft they have been sick,

And give us in recitals of disease

A doctor's trouble, but without the fees;
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed,
How an emetic or cathartic sped;
Nothing is slightly touched, much less forgot;
Nose, ears and eyes seem present on the
spot.

pill,

Now the distemper, spite of draught Victorious seemed, and now the doctor's skill;

And now-alas for unforeseen mishaps !—

mort

An argument of cogence, we may say,
Why such a one should keep himself away.

A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see,
Quite as absurd, though not so light, as he-
A shallow brain behind a serious mask,
An oracle within an empty cask,
The solemn fop, significant and budge;
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge;
He
says but little, and that little said
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead.
His wit invites you by his looks to come;
But when you knock, it never is at home:
'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage—
Some handsome present, as your hopes pre-

sage;

They thought they must have died, they

were so bad:

Their peevish hearers almost wish they had.

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch:
You always do too little or too much;
You 'speak with life, in hopes to entertain:
Your elevated voice goes through the brain;
You fall at once into a lower key:

That's worse the dronepipe of a humblebee.

The southern sash admits too strong a light; You rise and drop the curtain: now 'tis

night.

He shakes with cold; you stir the fire and

strive

To make a blaze: that's roasting him alive.

wish.

He takes what he at first professed to loathe,
And in due time feeds heartily on both;
Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown,
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down.
Your hope to please him vain on every
plan,

he stand

To take His Honor's orders cap in hand, Prefers his fellow-grooms with much good

sense,

Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence. If neither horse nor groom affect the squire, Where can at last His Jockeyship retire? Oh, to the club, the scene of savage joys,

He likes yours little, and his own still less. Thus always teasing others, always teased, His only pleasure is to be displeased.

I pity bashful men who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks upon a blushing face
Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute

The fear of being silent makes us mute.
We sometimes think we could a speech pro-
duce

Much to the purpose if our tongues were loose,
But, being tied, it dies upon the lip,
Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,
Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.

The reeking, roaring hero of the chase-
I give him over as a desperate case.
Physicians write in hopes to work a cure
Never, if honest ones, when death is sure;
And, though the fox he follows may be tamed,
A mere fox-follower never is reclaimed.
Some farrier should prescribe his proper

course

Whose only fit companion is his horse,
Or if, deserving of a better doom,

The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom.

noise;

There, in the sweet society of those
Whose friendship from his boyish years he

chose,

Let him improve his talent if he can,
Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man.

Man's heart had been impenetrably sealed, Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field,

Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand Given him a soul and bade him understand; The reasoning power vouchsafed of course inferred

The power to clothe that reason with his word;

For all is perfect that God works on earth, And he that gives conception adds the birth. If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood What uses of his boon the Giver would. The mind, despatched upon her busy toil, Shall range where Providence has blessed the soil; Visiting every flower with labor meet And gathering all her treasures sweet by sweet,

She should imbue the tongue with what she sips

And shed the balmy blessing on the lips.

WILLIAM COWPER.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What! your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,

Made you of spirit, fire and dew,
And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above.

Is great to grant as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love:

I claim you still for my own love's sake. Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse not a few: Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come-at last it willWhen, Evelyn Hope, "What meant," I shall say,

"In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay?" Why your hair was amber I shall divine,

And your mouth of your own geranium's
red,

And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one's stead.

"I have lived," I shall say, "so much since then,

Given up myself so many times,

Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;

Either I missed or itself missed me;

And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? Let us see!

"I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seemed full as it could hold;

For all men's wearied miseries; and to
rob

That of her ornament, it is accurst
As from a priest to steal a holy vestment,
Ay, and convert it to a sinful covering.

PHILIP MASSINGER.