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For daily bread the dirty trade they ply.

Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie;

Like bees for honey, forth for news

they spring,— Industrious creatures! ever on the

Home to their several cells they bear

the store, Culled of all kinds, then roam abroad

for more.

[From S

Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop, or pill,

All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill;

And twenty names of cobblers turned to squires.

Aid the bold language of these brush- less liars.

There are among them those who cannot read.

And yet they'll buy a patent, and succeed ;

Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid,

For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid?

And then, in many a paper through the year.

Must cures and cases, oaths and

proofs appear; Men snatched from graves, as they

were dropping in, Their lungs coughed up, their bones

pierced through their skin; Their liver all one seirrhus, and the


Poisoned with evils which they dare

not name; Men who spent all upon physicians'


Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease,

Are now as roaches sound, and all as brisk as bees.

[From Law.]

Lo! that small office! there th' incautious guest Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest;

There in his web, th' observant spider lies, I flies;

And peers about for fat, intruding Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum,

And feels them fluttering as they

nearer come; They buzz and blink, and doubtfully

they tread On the strong bird-lime of the utmost


But when they're once entangled by the gin,

With what an eager clasp he draws them in! [ delay,

Nor shall they 'scape till after long And all that sweetens life is drawn away.

[From The Patron.]


In silent ease, at least in silence, dine,

Nor one opinion start of food or wine: Thou know'st that all the science thou

canst boast, Is of thy father's simple boiled and


Nor always these; he sometimes saved

his cash, By interlinear days of frugal hash: Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou

be so vain As to decide on claret or champagne? Dost thou from me derive this taste


Who order port the dozen at a time? When (every glass held precious in our eyes)

We judged the value by the bottle's size: [sutne, Then never merit for thy praise asIts worth well knows each servant in the room.

[From The Patron.]


And now arriving at the Hall, he

For air composed, serene and satisfled;

As he had practised in his room alone, And there acquired a free and easy tone;

There he had said, "Whatever the degree

A man obtains, what more than man is he?"

And when arrived — "This room is

but a room, Can aught we see the steady soul

o'ercoine? Let me in all a manly firmness


Upheld by talents, and their value know,"

This reason urged; but it surpassed

his skill To be in act as manly as in will; When he his lordship and the lady


Brave as he was, he felt oppressed

with awe; And spite of verse, that so much

praise had won. The poet found he was the bailiff's


But dinner came, and the succeeding hours

Fixed his weak nerves, and raised his failing powers:

Praised and assured, he ventured once or twice

On some remark, and bravely broke the ice;

So that at night, reflecting on his words,

He found, in time, he might converse with lords.

Christopher Pearse Cranch.


No, Tom, you may banter as much as you please;

But it's all the result of the shellin' them peas.

Why, I had n't the slightest idee, do you know,

That so serious a matter would out of it grow.

I tell you what, Tom, I do feel kind o' scared.

I dreamed it, I hoped it, but never once dared

To breathe it to her. And besides, I must say

I always half fancied she fancied Jim Wray,

So I felt kind o' stuffy and proud, and took care

To be out of the way when that feller was there

A danglin' around; for thinks I, if it's him

That Katy likes best, what's the use lookin' grim

At Katy or Jim. — for it's all up with me;

And I'd better jest let 'em alone, do you see?

But you would n't have thought it; that girl never keered

The snap of a pea-pod for Jim's bushy beard.

Well, here's how it was. I was takin' some berries

Across near her garden to leave at Aunt Mary's;

When, jest as I come to the old ellum-tree,

All alone in the shade, that June mornin', was she —

Shellin' peas — setting there on a garden settee.

I swan, she was handsomer 'n ever I seen,

Like a rose all alone in a moss-work o' green.

Well, there wasn't no use; so, says I, I'll jest linger

And gaze at her here, hid behind a syringa.

But she heard me a movin', and looked a bit frightened,

So I come and stood near her. I fancied she brightened,

And seemed sort o' pleased. So I hoped she was well;

And— would she allow me to help her to shell?

For she sot with a monstrous big dish full of peas

Jest fresh from the vines, which she held on her knees.

"May I help you, Miss Katy ?" says I. "As you please,

Mr. Baxter," says she. "But you're busy, I guess —

Glancin' down at my berries, and then at her dress.

"Not the least. There's no hurry. It ain't very late;

And I'd rather be here, and Aunt Mary can wait."

So I sat down beside her; an' as nobody seen us,

I jest took the dish, and I held it between us.

And I thought to myself I must make an endeavor

To know which she likes, Jim or me, now or neverl

But I couldn't say nothin'. We sot there and held

That green pile between us. She shelled, and I shelled;

And pop went the pods; and I couldn't help thinkin'

Of popping the question. A kind of a sinkin'

Come over my spirits; till at last I got out,

"Mister Wray's an admirer of yours, I've no doubt

You see him quite often." "Well, sometimes. But why

And what if I did?" "O, well, nothin'." says L

"Some folks says you're goin' to marry him, though."

"Who says so?" says she; and she flared up like tow

When you throw in a match. "Well, some folks that I know."

"'T ain't true, sir," says she. And she snapped a big pod,

Till the peas, right and left, flew all over the sod.

Then I looked in her eyes, but she only looked down

With a blush she tried to chase off with a frown.

"Then it's somebody else you like better," says I.

"No, it ain't thought," says she; and I thought she would cry.

Then I tried to say somethin'; it stuck in my throat,

And all my ideas were upset and afloat.

But I said I knew somebody'd loved her so long —

Though he never had told her—with feelin's so strong

He was ready to die at her feet, if she chased,

If she only could love him! — I hardly supposed

That she cared for him much, though. And so Tom,— and so,—

For I thought that I saw how the matter would go,—

With my heart all a jumpin' with rapture, I found

I had taken her hand, and my arm was around

Her waist ere I knew it, and she with her head

On my shoulder, — but no, I won't tell what she said.

The birds sang above us; our secret was theirs;

The leaves whispered soft in the wandering airs.

I tell you the world was a new world to me.

I can talk of these things like a book now, you see.

But the peas? Ah, the peas in the pods were a mess

Rather bigger than those that we shelled, you may guess.

It's risky to set with a girl shellin' peas.

You may tease me now, Tom, just as much as you please.


Once on a time the days of the week Quarrelled and made bad weather.

The point was which of the seven was best; So they all disputed together.

And Monday said, "I wash the

clothes "; And Tuesday said, "I air 'em "; And Wednesday said, "I iron the

shirts ";

And Thursday said, " I wear 'em."

And Friday, " I'm the day for fish"; And Saturday, "Children love me";

And Sunday, "I am the Sabbath day,

I'm sure there are none above me."

One said, "I am the fittest for work ";

And one, " I am fittest for leisure." Another, "I'm best for prayer and praise"; lure." And another, "I'm best for pleasArguing thus, they flapped their wings,

And puffed up every feather;
They blew and rained and snowed
and hailed:
There never was seen such weather.

Old Father Time was passing by,
And heard the hurly-burly.

Said he, "Here's something going
It's well I was up so early.

"These children of mine have lost their wits

And seem to be all non compos. I never knew them to gabble thus.

Hollo there!—slop the rumpus!

"I should think you a flock of angry geese,

To hear your screaming and bawling.

Indeed, it would seem by the way it snows,

Goose-f eathers are certainly falling.

"You. Sunday, sir,with your starched cravat,

Black coat, and church-veneering: Tell me the cause of this angry spat; Speak loud,—I am hard of hearing.

"You are the foremost talker here;

The wisest sure you should be. I little thought such a deuce of a row

As you are all making, could be."

Then Sunday said, "Good Father Time,

The case is clear as noonday; For ever since the world was made, The Lord's day has been Sunday.

"The church —" Here Monday started up: "The folks are glad when you leave 'em; They all want me to give 'em work, And the pleasures of which you bereave 'em."'

But Tuesday said, "I finish your chores,

And do them as fine as a fiddle." And Wednesday, " I am the best of you all

Because I stand in the middle."

And Thursday, Friday, Saturday, each

Said things that I can't remember. And so they might have argued their


From March until December.

But Father Tempus cut them short: "My children, why this pother?

There is no best, there is no worst; One day's just like another.

"To God's great eye all shine alike As in their primal beauty.

That day is best whose deeds are best. That worst that fails in duty.

"Where Justice lights the passing hours,

Where Love is wise and tender. There beams the radiance of the skies, There shines a day of splendor."

Austin Dobson.


"More poets yet!" — I hear him say,
Aiming his heavy hand to slay; —

"Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,'
They seem to sprout where'er I go; —
I killed a host but yesterday!"

Slash on, O Hercules! You may;
Your task's at best a Hydra-fray;
And though you cut, not less will grow
More poets yet!

Too arrogant! For who shall stay
The first blind motions of the May?
Who shall outblot the morning glow,
Or stem the full heart's overflow'?
Who? There will rise, till time decay,
More poets yet!

John Dryden.

[From "Absalom and Achitophel.")

A Man so various that he seemed to

Not one, but all mankind's epitome: Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;

Was everything by starts, and nothing long;

But, in the course of one revolving moon,

Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon:

Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking,

Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.

Blest madman, who could every hour employ,

With something new to wish, or to enjoy!

Railing and praising were his usual themes;

And both, to show his judgment in

extremes: So over-violent, or over-civil, That every man with him was God or


In squandering wealth was his peculiar art;

Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggared by fools,whom still he found too late;

He had his jest, and they had his estate.


A FOX, full-fraught with seeming sanctity,

That feared an oath, but, like the

devil, would lie; Who looked like Lent, and had the

holy leer,

And durst not sin before he said his prayer;

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