Point vii.

MISERIES OF MATRIMONY.

WHAT, What is Marriage? Harris, Priscian,
Assist me with a definition.

"Oh!" cries a charming silly fool,

Emerging from her boarding school,

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Marriage is love, without disguises,

It is a-something that arises

From raptures and from stolen glances,
To be the end of all Romances;

Vows-quarrels-moonshine-babes-but hush!
I mustn't have you see me blush.”

"Pshaw!" says a modern modish wife, "Marriage is splendour, fashion, life; A house in town, and villa shady, Balls, diamond bracelets, and 'My Lady;' Then for Finale, angry words,

Some people's'-' obstinates,'—'absurds!'

And peevish hearts and silly heads,

And oaths, and 'bêtes,' and separate beds."
An aged bachelor, whose life
Has just been "sweeten'd" with a wife,
Tells out the latent grievance thus:
"Marriage is-odd! for one of us

G

'Tis worse a mile than rope or tree,
Hemlock, or sword, or slavery;
An end at once to all our ways,
Dismission to the one-horse chaise;

Adieu to Sunday can and pig,

Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig;

Our friends turn out-our wives are clapt in, "Tis 'exit Crony,'-' enter Captain.'

Then hurry in a thousand thorns,
Quarrels and compliments-and Horns.
This is the yoke,—and I must wear it;
Marriage is-Hell, or something near it."

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Why, Marriage," says an Exquisite,
Sick from the supper of last night,
"Marriage is—after one by me!
I promised Tom to ride at three.-
Marriage is-Gad! I'm rather late!
La Fleur!-my stays,-and chocolate!
D-n the Champaign!—so plaguy sour,
It gives the headache in an hour;
Marriage is really though, 'twas hard
To lose a thousand on a card;

Sink the old Duchess!-three revokes!
Gad! I must fell the Abbey oaks :
Mary has lost a thousand more;

Marriage is-Gad! a cursed bore!"

Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan,

Rises indignant from his throne,
And mocks their self-reviling tears,
And whispers thus in Folly's ears:-
"Oh! frivolous of heart and head!
If strifes infest your nuptial bed,

POINT VII.

Not Hymen's hand, but Guilt, and Sin,
Fashion, and Folly, force them in;
If on your couch is seated Care,

I did not bring the scoffer there;

If Hymen's torch is feebler grown,
The hand that quench'd it was your own;
And what I am, unthinking elves!

Ye all have made me for yourselves!"

THE MISERIES OF HABIT.

"HABITS are stubborn things:"

And by the time a man is turn'd of forty, His ruling passion's grown so haughty, There is no clipping of its wings.

The truth will best be shown

By a familiar instance of our own.
Dick Strype

Was a dear friend and lover of the pipe;

He used to say, "One pipe of Wishart's best
Gave life a zest."

To him 'twas meat, and drink, and physic,
To see the friendly vapour

Curl round his midnight taper,

And the black fume

Clothe all the room

In clouds as dark as science metaphysic.