'Wearied with pleasure! Thing till now unheard!— Are all that sweeten trouble to be feared?

'Tis but the sameness tires you, -cross the seas,

And let us taste the world's varieties.

'Tis said, in Paris that a man may live

In all the luxuries a world can give,

And in a space confined to narrow bound
All the enjoyments of our life are found.

There we may eat and drink, may dance and dress,
And in its very essence joy possess;

May see moving crowd of lovely dames,
May win a fortune at your favourite games;
May hear the sounds that ravish human sense,
And all without receding foot from thence."

The conquered wife, resistless and afraid,
To the strong call a sad obedience paid.

As we an infant, in its pain, with sweets
Loved once, now loathed, torment him till he eats,
Who on the authors of his new distress
Looks trembling with disgusted weariness,
So Harriet felt, so looked, and seemed to say,
"Oh for a day of rest, a holiday!"

At length, her courage rising with her fear,
She said, "Our pleasures may be bought too dear!"

To this he answered-"Dearest ! from thy heart
Bid every fear of evil times depart.

I ever trusted in the trying hour

To my good stars, and felt the ruling power.

When Want drew nigh, his threatening speed was stopped,

Some virgin aunt, some childless uncle, dropped.

In all his threats I sought expedients new,

And my last, best resource was found in you."

Silent and sad the wife beheld her doom,

And sat her down to see the ruin come,

And meet the ills that rise where money fails,

Debts, threats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, and jails.

These was she spared; ere yet by want oppressed,
Came one more fierce than bailiff in arrest.
Amid a scene where Pleasure never came,
Though never ceased the mention of his name,
The husband's heated blood received the breath
Of strong disease, that bore him to his death.

Her all collected,-whether great or small
The sum, I know not, but collected ali,-

The widowed lady to her cot retired,
And there she lives delighted and admired:
Civil to all, compliant and polite,

Disposed to think "whatever is is right:"

She wears the widow's weeds, she gives the widow's mite.
At home awhile, she in the autumn finds

The sea an object for reflecting minds,

And change for tender spirits; there she reads,
And weeps in comfort in her graceful weeds.

What gives our tale its moral? Here we find
That wives like this are not for rule-designed,
Nor yet for blind submission. Happy they
Who, while they feel it pleasant to obey,
Have yet a kind companion at their side
Who in their journey will his power divide,
Or yield the reins, and bid the lady guide;
Then points the wonders of the way, and makes
The duty pleasant that she undertakes.
He shows her objects as they move along,
And gently rules the movements that are wrong;
He tells her all the skilful driver's art,

And smiles to see how well she acts her part;
Nor praise denies to courage or to skill,
In using power that he resumes at will.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

[Born in London, 28 November1 1757; died there, 12 August 1827. This would be an inappropriate place for giving any account of the supernal mystic -designer, painter, engraver, poet, and seer. Indeed, to include him at all in a volume of Humorous Poetry requires almost an apology; the quaintness and freakish quality (not unmingled with a deep sense) of the following slight compositions may however furnish such apology, if needed].

THE LITTLE VAGABOND.

DEAR mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;

But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.
Besides, I can tell where I am used well;

The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell.

But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,

We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

1 This is the date given in the Life of Blake by Gilchrist, and elsewhere. A MS. which I have seen, belonging to Mr. Tatham who knew Blake in his closing years, says "20 November," and I am not sure but that this may be right.

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father, rejoicing to see

His children as pleasant and happy as He,

Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

ORATOR PRIG.

I ASKED of my dear friend orator Prig:

"What's the first part of oratory?" He said: "A great wig." "And what is the second?" Then, dancing a jig

And bowing profoundly, he said: "A great wig.'

"And what is the third?" Then he snored like a pig,
And, puffing his cheeks out, replied: "A great wig.”

So, if to a painter the question you push,

"What's the first part of painting?" he'll say: "A paint-brush."
And what is the second?" With most modest blush,
He'll smile like a cherub, and say: "A paint-brush."
"And what is the third?" He'll bow like a rush,
With a leer in his eye, and reply: "A paint-brush.”
Perhaps this is all a painter can want:

But look yonder,-that house is the house of Rembrandt.

GEORGE COLMAN (JUNR.)

[Born 21 October 1762, died 26 October 1836. Author of The Poor Gentleman, The Iron Chest, The Heir at Law, and numerous plays that have held a high position on the stage; also of Broad Grins, and other humorous compositions in verse. He was a theatrical manager, and Examiner of Plays for several years. His father, George Colman the elder, was also a writer of a similar class; The Clandestine Marriage (written by him and Garrick jointly) being one of his chief productions].

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

A MAN, in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with Death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet some affirm no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,

Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So, many a suffering patient saith,
Though the Apothecary fights with Death,

Still they're sworn friends to one another.

A member of this Esculapian line
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill,

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister,
Or draw a tooth out of your head,
Or chatter scandal by your bed,
Or give a clyster.

Of occupations these were quantum suff.:
Yet still he thought the list not long enough,
And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't.
This balanced things:-for, if he hurled
A few score mortals from the world,
He made amends by bringing others into't.

His fame full six miles round the country ran;
In short, in reputation he was solus
All the old women called him "a fine man!"
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter),
Read works of fancy, it is said,
And cultivated the Belles-Lettres.

And why should this be thought so odd? Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic? Of poetry though patron-god,

Apollo patronizes physic.

Bolus loved verse; and took so much delight in't That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass

Of writing the directions on his labels

In dapper couplets,-like Gay's Fables;
Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary's verse! And where's the treason?
'Tis simply honest dealing :-not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient lying at death's door,

Some three miles from the town,-it might be four;

To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,

In Pharmacy, that's called cathartical,

And on the label of the stuft

He wrote this verse;

Which, one would think, was clear enough,

And terse:-
"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning, early, Bolus rose;
And to the patient's house he goes,
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had.
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course:

For what's expected from a horse
With an Apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived; and gave a doubtful tap,
Between a single and a double rap.

Knocks of this kind

Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance,
By fiddlers, and by opera-singers:
One loud, and then a little one behind;
As if the knocker fell, by chance,
Out of their fingers.

The servant lets him in, with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-
Portending some disaster.

John's countenance as rueful looked, and grim,
As if the Apothecary had physicked him,
And not his master.

"Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said.
John shook his head.

"Indeed 1-hum! ha!-that's very odd!

He took the draught?" John gave a nod.

Well,-how?-what then?-speak out, you dunce!"

"Why, then," says John, ". we shook him once." "Shook him! How?" Bolus stammered out.

"We jolted him about."

"Zounds! Shake a patient, man!-a shake won't do." "No, Sir,-and so we gave him two." "Two shakes! od's curse!

'Twould make the patient worse."

"It did so, Sir!-and so a third we tried."

"Well, and what then?"-"Then, Sir, my master died!"