From the white-blossom'd sloe my dear Chloris requested A sprig, her fair breast to adorn: No, byHeavens! I exclaim'd, let me perish, if ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!

When Lascelles thought fitfrom this world to depart, Some friends warmly thought of embalming his heart; A bystander whispers- "Pray don't make so much o't, The subject is poison, noreptile will touch it."

We grant they're thine, those beauties all, So lovely in our eye; Keep them, thou eunuch, Cardoness, For others to enjoy!

In se'enteen hunder'n forty-nine, The deilgatstuff to maka swine, An' coostit in a corner; Butwilily he chang'd his plan, An' shap'd it something like a man, An'ca'd it Andrew Turner.

Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd, If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd.

Here cursing, swearing Burton lies, A buck, a beau, or"Dem my eyes!" Who in his life did little good, And his last words were "Dem my blood!"

Earth'd up, here lies animp o'hell, Planted bySatan's dibble; Poor silly wretch, he's damned himsel', To save the Lord the trouble.

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd; How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flatt'ry so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Maria,