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Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight,

Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show, Did with more valor stoutly fight,

And terrify each little squeaking foe; When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray! And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts

of hay.

Not with more energy and fury
The beauteous street-walker of Drury

Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade,
Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile,
Ah, me! her paramour beguile,

And to her bed of healthy straw persuade;
Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl,
And snails with silver traces deck the wall.

And now a cane, and now a whip he used,
And now he kicked, and sore the palfry bruised;
Yet, lo, the horse seemed patient at each kick,
And bore with Christian spirit whip and stick;
And what excessively provoked this prince,
The horse so stubborn scorned even once to wince.

Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow
To shoot the rebel like a sparrow;
And, lo, with shafts well steeled, with all his force,
Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse !

Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar,
With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore,

Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast;
Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dared rebel,
Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell,

Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast;
Blessed as Achilles when with fatal wound
He brought the mighty Hector to the ground.

Yet more to gratify his godlike ire,
IIe vengeful flung the palfry in the fire!
Showing his pages round, poor trembling things,
How dangerous to resist the will of kings.



Lo, to the cruel hand of fate,
My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate,

Resigns her tuneful breath-
Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale,
And blue each harmless finger-nail,

She's beautiful in death.

As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep-

How wonderfully tame!
And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone

With all the lightning's flame.

Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite-

To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And cared a single fig for no man,

I thought he feared to meet her.

Still is that voice of late so strong,
That many a sweet capriccio sung,

And beat in sounds the spheres;
No longer must those fingers play
“ Britons strike home,” that many a day

Hath soothed my ravished ears.

Ah me! indeed I'm much inclined
To think how I may speak my mind,

Nor hurt her dear repose;
Nor think I now with rage she'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,

And touch her precious nose.

Here let me philosophic pause-
How wonderful are nature's laws,

When ladies' breath retires, Its fate the flaming passions share, Supported by a little air,

Like culinary fires.

Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note,
Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat,

And loud instructive lungs;
O Death, in her, though only one,
Are lost a thousand charms unknown,

At least a thousand tongues.

Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh,
And saw her gently-closing eye,

How great was my surprise !
Yet have I not, with impious breath,
Accused the hard decrees of death,

Nor blamed the righteous skies.

Why do I groan in deep despair,
Since she 'll be soon an angel fair ?

Ah! why my bosom smite ?
Could grief my Grizzle's life restore l-
But let me give such ravings o'er-

Whatever is, is right.

O doctor! you are come too late;
No more of physic's virtues prate,

That could not save my lamb:
Not one more bolus shall be given-
You shall not ope her mouth by heaven,

And Grizzle's gullet cram.

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For this my poor lost treasure: I thank you for your pains and skill ; When next you come, pray bring your bill;

I'll pay it, sir, with pleasure.

Ye friends who come to mourn her doom,
For God's sake gently tread the room,

Nor call her from the blessed-
In softest silence drop the tear,
In whispers breathe the fervent prayer,

To bid her spirit rest.

Repress the sad, the wounding scream;
I can not bear a grief extreme

Enough one little sigh-
Besides, the loud alarm of grief,
In many a mind may start belief,

Our noise is all a lie.

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Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care;
Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare,

Her mouth, ah! slowly close;
Her mouth a magic tongue that held-

Whose softest toue, at times, compelled

To peace my loudest woes.

And, carpenter, for my sad sake,
Of stoutest oak her coffin make-

I'd not be stingy, sure-
Procure of steel the strongest screws;
For who could paltry pence refuse

To lodge his wife secure ?

Ye people who the corpse convey,
With caution tread the doleful way,

Nor shake her precious head;
Since Fame reports a coffin tossed,
With careless swing against a post,

Did once disturb the dead.

Farewell, my love, forever lost!
Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost,

That I again will woo-
By all our past delights, my dear,
No more the marriage chain I'll wear,

Deil take me if I do!


PETER PINDAR, A Soldier at Loretto's wondrous chapel, To parry

from his soul the wrath Divine, That followed mother Eve's unlucky apple,

Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine; Who every day is gorgeously decked out,

In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small. Just like a fine young lady for a rout,

A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball.

At first the Soldier at a distance kept,

Begging her vote and interest in heavenWith seeming bitterness the sinner wept,

Wrung his two hands, and hoped to be forgiven: Dinned her two ears with Ave-Mary flummery!

Declared what miracles the dame could do,

Even with her garter, stocking, or her shoe, And such like wonder-working mummery.

What answer Mary gave the wheedling sinner,
Who nearly and more nearly moved to win her,
The mouth of history doth not mention,
And therefore I can't tell but by invention.

One day, as he was making love and praying,
And pious Aves, thick as herring, saying,

And sins so manifold confessing;
He drew, as if to whisper, very near,
And twitched a pretty diamond from her ear,

Instead of taking the good lady's blessing.

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