And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn,
With its annoying finger, men and dogs,

Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless; And last, not least, of rescued blessings-love,

Love smiled on me again, when I assumed

A brand-new beaver of the Andre mold;

And then the laugh was mine, for then came out
The secret of this strangeness.

't was a bet!

THE WHISKERS.

A PETIT MAITRE wooed a fair,
Of virtue, wealth, and graces rare;
But vainly had preferred his claim-
The maiden owned no answering flame ;
At length, by doubt and anguish torn,
Suspense too painful to be borne,
Low at her feet he humbly kneeled,
And thus his ardent flame revealed:
"Pity my grief, angelic fair;
Behold my anguish and despair;
For you, this heart must ever burn-
O bless me with a kind return;
My love, no language can express;
Reward it, then, with happiness:
Nothing on earth but you I prize;
All else is trifling in my eyes;
And cheerfully would I resign
The wealth of worlds, to call you mine.
But if another gain your hand,
Far distant from my native land,
Far hence, from you and hope, I'll fly,
And in some foreign region die."

The virgin heard, and thus replied:

"If my consent to be your bride
Will make you happy, then be blest;
But grant me, first, one small request-
A sacrifice I must demand,

And, in return, will give my hand."
"A sacrifice! O speak its name;
you I'd forfeit wealth and fame;
Take whole fortune -
my
every cent-

For

""T was something more than wealth I meant." "Must I the realms of Neptune trace? where'er the place;

O speak the word

66

For you, the idol of my soul,
I'd e'en explore the frozen pole,
Arabia's sandy desert tread,
Or trace the Tigris to its head."
Oh, no, dear sir, I do not ask
So long a voyage, so hard a task;
You must but ah! the boon I want,
I have no hope that you will grant."
"Shall I, like Bonaparte, aspire
To be the world's imperial sire?
Express the wish, and here I vow,
To place a crown upon your brow."
Sir, these are trifles," she replied;
"But, if you wish me for your bride,
You must but still I fear to speak
You'll never grant the boon I seek."
"O say!" he cried- "dear angel, say,
What must I do, and I obey;

No longer rack me with suspense;

Speak your commands, and send me hence."

"Well, then, dear, generous youth!" she cries,

"If thus my heart you really prize,

And wish to link your fate with mine,
On one condition I am thine :

'T will then become my pleasing duty,
To contemplate a husband's beauty;
And, gazing on his manly face,
His feelings and his wishes trace;
To banish thence each mark of care,
And light a smile of pleasure there.
O let me, then 't is all I ask-

Commence at once the pleasing task;
O let me, as becomes my place-

Cut those huge whiskers from your face!"
She said-but oh, what strange surprise
Was pictured in her lover's eyes!

Like lightning, from the ground he sprung,
While wild amazement tied his tongue;
A statue, motionless, he gazed,
Astonished, horror-struck, amazed.
So looked the gallant Perseus, when
Medusa's visage met his ken;

So looked Macbeth, whose guilty eye
Discerned an air-drawn dagger nigh;
And so the prince of Denmark stared,
When first his father's ghost appeared.
At length our hero silence broke,
And thus, in wildest accents, spoke:
"Cut off my whiskers! O ye gods!
I'd sooner lose my ears, by odds:
Madam, I'd not be so disgraced,
So lost to fashion and to taste,
To win an empress to my arms,

Though blest with more than mortal charms.
My whiskers! zounds!"

He said no more,

But quick retreated through the door,

And sought a less obdurate fair,

To take the beau with all his hair.

WOODWORTH.

A VERY POOR HORSE.

PETRUCHIO is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin: a pair of old breeches, thrice turned: a pair of boots that have been candle cases, one buckled, another laced: an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and shapeless, with two broken points. His horse hipped with an old mothy saddle, the stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders, and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of wind-galls, sped with spavins, raied with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots; swayed in the back, and shoulder-shotten; ne'er-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots; one girt six times pieced, and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name, fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread. His lackey comes with him, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg, and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, and The humor of forty fancies pricked in 't for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel; and not like a Christian foot-boy, or a gentleman's lackey.

SHAKSPEARE.

FALSTAFF'S MORAL LECTURE

PEACE, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain.-Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied for though the chamomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If, then, thou be son to me, here lies the point:-Why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries? a question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses ? a question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also. And yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name—a good portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by 'r lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If, then, the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish.

SHAKSPEARE.

DIALOGUES-SERIOUS AND COMIC.

THE TRIUMPH OF JULIUS CÆSAR.

FLAVIUS

MARULLUS -CITIZENS.

Flav. Hence; home, you idle creatures, get you home:
Is this a holiday? What! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk,
Upon a laboring day, without the sign

Of your profession?- Speak, what trade art thou?
1 Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule"
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?
You, sir; what trade are you ?

2 Cit. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman,

I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

2 Cit. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

Mar. What trade, thou knave; thou naughty knave, what trade?

2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

Mar. What meanest thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow ?

2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you.

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

2 Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor woman's matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's leather, have gone upon my handiwork.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

2 Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace

in captive bonds his chariot wheels?