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His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:

:

So kept it laughing at the steel and fuds
Hodge, in a paffion, ftretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direft vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile CHEAT that fold the goods.
"Razors! a damn'd, confounded dog,
"Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge fought the fellow-found him-and begun :
"P'rhaps, Mafter Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
"That people flay themselves out of their lives:
"You rafcal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
"Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
"With razors just like oyfter-knives.
"Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
"To cry up razors that can't have.

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"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave: "As for the razors you have bought,

"Upon my foul I never thought "That they would have?

"Not think they'd have!" quoth Hodge with wond'ring eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a fmile-" to fell!" PETER PINDAR.

On the Death of Tom Osborne the Bookseller, in September, 1766.

Fa dull heavy folio, here refts the last page,
And what is more true, the beft half:

OF

It had nothing within it, informing or fage, 'Twas unletter'd and bound up in calf.

An Elegy on a Tallow Candle.

ENSIVE I lay, e'en from the dead of night,
Until the fun his daily courfe began,
Reflecting on the candle's wafting light,
And moraliz'd the fate of mortal man.

White and unfully'd was that cotton-wick,
When from the chandler first to me it came;
Behold how black! the greafy drops how thick!
Such colour takes it from imparted flame.

Such is the youth, of manners ftrict and pure,
Till, led by vice, he quits his reason's guide;
By flatt'ry drawn, he ftoops to vice's lure,
And from the path of reason wanders wide.

His paffions melt, his manly vigour faints, Nor mourns he aught his former vigour gone; For foul fociety his morals taints,

And Mother Herbert marks him for her own.

The fool who fells his freedom for a smile,
Or for a ribband barters peace of mind,
Like wafting wicks juft glimmers for a while,
Then dies in fmoke, and leaves a ftink behind.

The many perils that ambition wait,
When foaring high, we still the lower fall,
Are but the fnuffers of expiring light,
And Death's the grand extinguifher of all.

ANON.

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The Beggar's Petition.

ITY the forrows of a poor old man,

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Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your
door,

Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest fpan,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will blefs your ftore.

These tatter'd cloaths my poverty befpeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon houfe, erected on the rifing ground,
With tempting afpect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a refidence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'd a morfel of their bread,

A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
To feek a fhelter in an humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hofpitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miferably old.

Should I reveal the fources of my grief,
If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breaft,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of Pity would not be repreft.

Heaven fends misfortunes; why fhould we repine?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the ftate you fee;
And your condition may be foon, like mine,
The child of Sorrow, and of Mifery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn;
But ah! oppreffion forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is caft abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty Poverty to roam.

My tender wife, fweet foother of my care!
Struck with fad anguish at the ftern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to defpair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the forrows of a poor old man,

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your ftore.

Translation of Hanmer's Epitaph.

HOU who furvey'ft thefe walls with curious eye,

TH

Pause at this tomb, where Hanmer's afhes lie; His various worth through varied life attend,

And learn his virtues while thou mourn'ft his end.

His force of genius burn'd in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;
His learning, join'd with each endearing art,
Charm'd ev'ry ear, and gain'd on ev'ry heart.`

Thus early wife, th' endanger'd realm to aid,
His country call'd him from the ftudious fhade;
In life's first bloom his public toils began,
At once commenc'd the fenator and man.

In business dextrous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;
In every speech perfuafive wisdom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd;
Sufpended faction ceas'd from rage and ftrife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.

Refistless merit fix'd the Senate's choice, Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice. Illuftrious age! how bright thy glories fhone, When Hanmer fill'd the chair-and Anne the throne!

Then when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate, When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state, The Moderator firmly mild appear'd

Beheld with love-with veneration heard.

This task perform'd-he fought no gainful post,
Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's coft;
Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye,
With temperate zeal and wife anxiety;

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