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Now, 8, 1915 Harvard University Child Memorial Library
YEAR, most propitious, to our earthly leaven!
The eighteenth century, and twenty-seven!
For ever, may, thy fame be kept, in mind,
By all the vot’ries of that urchin, blind,
Whose barbed darts, promiscuously, bold,
Without distinction, pierce the young, and old :
In ev'ry class, his trade is sure to thrive,
And witless fifteen weds with ninety-five!
Long had, together, pac'd Brighthelmstone's sands-
Long talk'd of love, ánd Hymen's silken bands
Long trod the streets-long scour'd the dusty roads,
From Town, to Brighton-eyed those blest abodes,
Where Florizel enjoy'd Perditta's charms,
And fat, fair, forty sunk, in George's arms :
Long, Harriet, wistful view'd the ducal crown,
Long, practis'd smiles displac'd her temper's frown-
Long, Beauclerc sigh'd for Coutts' exhaustless bag,
Deplor'd its price ;-yet would not lose the swag.
Again, a respite, to that fatal day,
When she, her cash, and he, his fame, must pay.
The sighing dolts, once more, their wits, apply,
To chace their fears-and, once more, travel try.
Their gaudy trains, now, hasten to set forth,
From murky London, to the keener North
Attract all eyes, in ev'ry place they pass,
She, a rich the, a half-bred ass : ,
Doubting, between two hay-stacks, there he stands,
Until his feet exclaim, pray, help us, hands!
O'er England's borders, onward, still they tour
'Tis pleasant trav'ling, in a chaise and four,
With money, plenty :-all the world. attends
All strive to grace their list of honor'd friends.
The “ March of Intellect" brooks no control
She “ feast of reason,” and he “ flow of soul.”.
From John o'Groat's, to the Land's End they fly-
The Scots aw, boo-John Bull's in ecstacy.
“ Sure, such a pair,” till now," was never seen,”:
So form’d, by nature's self, to meet, I ween.
Addresses, may, from Corporations, come,
Invites, and dinners want us, next, “at home.” ;;? 40
Before we part, exclaimis the fair, decide,
To take me,'to thy bed, a blooming bride
... or it
What! Hesitate, Automaton?. I say,
Marry thou shalt, or, on the low'ring day, 6., I stan
In June, thou promised'st, my Coutts, to pay, it!!
D-n me, the mortgage, if I don't foreclose, cisti;'
And give, to all the Beauclerc's, such a dosen
Thou, and thy bare-breech'd brethren, shall deplore
Lands, hou ses, incomes, lost, for ever-more-
Thy sisters, then, their kindred equals meet, an
With mutual welcome, houseless, in the street...
Convinc'd—the enamoured swain groan'd, shook his head'Tis hard--but I must bave a Wife, for-bread.