Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent Street well may say,

That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth moreShe had not died to-day.

FIRST let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set, and the word to be-loo;
All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fix'd in the centre.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn
At never once finding a visit from Pam.

I lay down my stake, apparently cool,

While the harpies about me all pocket the pool;

I fret in my gizzard-yet cautious and sly,

I wish all my friends may be bolder than I:
Yet still they sit snug; not a creature will aim,
By losing their money, to venture at fame.
'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
'Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold;

All play their own way, and they think me an ass:

"What does Mrs. Bunbury?" "I, sir? I pass."

Pray what does Miss Horneck? Take courage, come, do!" "Who-I? Let me see, sir; why, I must pass, too."

Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the Devil,

To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil;

To Mrs. Bunbury.

Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion,

I venture at all, while my avarice regards

The whole pool as my own. "Come, give me five cards."
"Well done!" cry the ladies; "ah! Doctor, that's good-
The pool's very rich. Ah! the Doctor is loo'd."
Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplext,

I ask for advice from the lady that's next.
"Pray, Ma'am, be so good as to give your advice;

Don't you think the best way is to venture for 't twice?"
"I advise," cries the lady, "to try it, I own-

Ah! the Doctor is loo'd: come, Doctor, put down."
Thus playing and playing, I still grow more eager,

And so bold, and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar.
Now, ladies, I ask-if law matters you're skill'd in,

Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding?
For, giving advice that is not worth a straw,

May well be call'd picking of pockets in law;

And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye,

Is, by Quinto Elizabeth --death without clergy.

What justice! when both to the Old Bailey brought ;
By the gods! I'll enjoy it, though 'tis but in thought.
Both are plac'd at the bar with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel and nosegays before 'em;

Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,

But the judge bids them, angrily, take off their hat.

When uncover'd, a buzz of inquiry runs round;

66

Pray what are their crimes?" "They 've been pilfering found."

But, pray, whom have they pilfer'd?" "A Doctor, I hear." "What, that solemn-fac'd, odd-looking man that stands near?"

"The same."

"What a pity! How does it surprise one:

Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on!"

Then their friends all come round me, with cringing and leering,

To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing.

First, Sir Charlès advances, with phrases well strung:

Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young."

"The younger the worse," I return him again;

"It shows that their habits are all dy'd in grain."

"But then they're so handsome; one's bosom it grieves.”
"What signifies handsome, when people are thieves?"
"But where is your justice? their cases are hard."
What signifies justice? I want the reward.

"There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty poundsthere's the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pounds there's the parish of Tyburn offers forty pounds : I shall have all that, if I convict them."

"But consider their case, it may yet be your own; And see how they kneel: is your heart made of stone?" This moves: so, at last, I agree to relent,

For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent.

I tell you, you

I challenge you all to answer this. cannot it cuts deep. But now for the rest of the letter; and next-but I want room-so I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week. I don't value you all!

O. G.

FOR you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise;
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
See how she moves along with every grace,

While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.
She speaks! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss;
Ye gods! what transport e'er compar'd to this?
As when, in Paphian groves, the Queen of Love
With fond complaint address'd the listening Jove-
'Twas joy and endless blisses all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last, even Jove was taken in,

And felt her charms, without disguise, within.