Undertook to decide on this weighty affair ;
And cry'd, 'Can you doubt in a case that's so plain?
Be guided by me, and you'll ne'er doubt again:
The plea of the plaintiff rests wholly on this ;
In fishing him up he takes it amiss,
That Charlot maneuvred with so little skill,
So awkwardly fumbled and managed so ill,
As thus with his bungling to ruin John's look,
And put out an eye with the point of his hook-
Well, now, my lord julges, attend my decree,
Straitway let the plainliff be thrown in the sea,
And, after reposing awhile on the bottom,
If he get out alone from where Charlot got him,
Safe, sound, and undamaged-why, then 'tis my

sentence
That Charlot be punished and brought to repentance.
But if, after gasping and flouncing about.
He drowns in the water, and fails getting out,
Why, then, it is justice, it must be confest,
That Charlot forth with be discharged from arrest,
Absolved from all punishment due to the wound,
And paid in the bargain, cause John was not

drowncd.' The audience were struck with a world of surprise To find that a fool could give counsel so wise. The judges themselves the sentence espoused, And freely consented that John should be soused.

John finding that matters had took a wrong turn, Not waiting to see if the court would adjourn, Sneaked out of the house, with a hiss of disgrace, In dread lest the sentence should quickly take place, Grown pliant at last, his cause he withdrew-His plea was so bad and his friends were so few; It was needless, he thought on the cast of a die To venture bis life for the sake of an eye. And concluded 'twas better to give up the suit, Than risk the one left, and be smothered to boot.

THE MONKEY, WHO SHAVED HIMSELF

AND HIS FRIENDS.
A FABLE.

(HUMPHREYS.)
A MAN who own’d a barber's shop
At York, and shav'd full many a fop,
A monkey kept for their amusement;
He made no other kind of use on't--
This monkey took great observation,
Was wonderful at imitation,
And all he saw the barber do,
He mimick'd strait, and did it too.

It chanc'd, in shop the dog and cat,
While friseur din'd, demurely sat ;
Jacko found nought to play the knave in ;
So thought he'd try his hand at shaving.
Around the shop in haste he rushes,
And gets the razors, soap and brushes ;
Now puss he fix'd (no muscle miss stirs)
And lather'd well her beard and whiskers,
Then gave a gash, as he began--
T'he cat cried, waugh! and off she ran.
Next Towser's beard he tried his skill in,
Tho' Towser secm'd somewhat unwilling:
As badly here again succeeding,
The dog runs howling round and bleeding.

Nor yet was tird, our roguish elf:
He'd seen the barber shave himself;
So by the glass, upon the table,
He rubs with soap his visage sable;
Then with left hand holds smooth his jaw;
The razor, in his dexter paw,
Around he flourishes and slashes,
Till all his face is seam'd with gashes.
His cheeks dispatch'd his visage thin
He cock'd, to shave beneath his chin;

Drew razor swift as he could pull it,
And cut, from ear to ear, his gullet.

MORAL.

Who cannot write, yet handle pens, Are apt to hurt themselves and friends, Tho’ others use them well, yet fools Should never meddle with edge-tools.

THE SPORTSMAN IN STYLE.

(DIBDIN.) Don't you see that as how. I'm a sportsman in

style, All so kickislı so slim and so tall: Why I've search'd after game, and that many's the

mile, And seed no bit of nothing at all: My license I pockets, my pony I strides,

And I pelts through the wind and the rain ; And if likely to fall, sticks the spurs in the sides,

Leaves the bridle, and holds by the mane, To be sure dad at home kicks up no little strife, But daddy what's that, en't it fashion and life? At sporting I never was known for to lag,

I was always in danger the first; When at Epping last Easter they turn'dout the stag

I'm the lad that was roll'd in the dust.
Then they call me a nincom, why over the fields,

There a little beyond Dulwich Common,
I a chick and a goose tumbled neck over heels,

And two mudlarks, besides an old woman ; Then let miserly dad kick up sorrow and strife, I'm the lad that's genteel, and knows fashion and

MONSIEUR TONSON.

31

But don't go for to think I neglects number one-

Often when my companions with ardour,
Are hunting about with the dog and the gun,
I
goes

and I hunts in the larder:
There I springs a woodcock, or flushes a quail,

Or finds puss as she sits under cover, Then soho to the barrel to start me some ale,

And when I have dined, and fed Rover, Pays my landloril's shot, as I ogles his wife, While the daughter cries out--lord! what fashion

and life! Then I buys me some garne, all as homeward we

jog, And when the folks ax how I got 'em, Tho’I shooted but once, and then kill'd the poor dog

I swears, and then stands to 't, that I shot'em. So come round me ye sportsmen, that's smart and

what not, All stylish and cutting a flash; When your piece won't kill game charg'd with

powder and shot, To bring 'em down, down with your caslı; And if with their jokes and their jeers folks are rife, Why dabby, says you, e’nt it fashion and life?

MONSIEUR TONSON.

THERE liv'd as fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclep'd Tom King,
A fellow that was clever at a joke,
Expert in all the arts to teaze and smoke,

In short, for strokes of humour, quite the thing. To many a jovial club this King was known, With whom bis active wit unrivall'd shone...

Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood, Would croad, his stories and bon mots to hear, And none a disappointment e'er could fear,

His humour flow'd in such a copious flood.
To him a frolic was a high delight-
A frolic he would hunt for day and night,

Careless how prudence on the sport might frown.
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,

Nor left the game till he had run it down. One night, our hero, rambling with a friend, Near fam'd St. Giles's chanc'd his course to bend,

Just by that spot, the Seven Dials height; 'Twas silence all around and clear the coast, The watch, as usual dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light. Around this place, there liv'd the num'rous clans Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans,

Known at that time by the name of refugeesThe rod of persecution, from their home, Compellid the inoffensive race to roam, And here they lighted like a swarm of bees. Well! our two friends were saunt'ring through the

street, In hopes some food for humour soon to meet,

When, in a window near, a light they view; And, though a dim and melancholy ray, It seem'd the prologue to some merry play,

So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew. Strait at the door he gave a thund'ring knock, (The time we may suppose near two o'clock)

• I'll ask,' says King. 'if Thompson lodges here'-• Thompson." cries t'other, who the devil's he?" 1 krow not,' King replies, but want to see What kind of animal will now appear.'