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ON THE SAME.

WHEN wit and genius meet their doom

In all devouring flame,

They tell us of the fate of Rome,

And bid us fear the same.

O'er MURRAY's loss the muses wept,

They felt the rude alarm,

Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept His sacred head from harm.

There memory, like the bee that's fed

From Flora's balmy store,

The quintessence of all he read

Had treasured up before.

The lawless herd, with fury blind,

Have done him cruel wrong;

The flowers are gone-but still we find The honey on his tongue.

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THUS says the prophet of the Turk,
Good mussulman, abstain from pork;

There is a part in every swine

No friend or follower of mine

*It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Journal, without the author's privity.

May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication.
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarred;
And set their wit at work to find

What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose:
These choose the back, the belly those;
By some 'tis confidently said

He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,

And piously prefer the tail,

Thus conscience freed from every clog,

Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh-'tis well-the tale applied May make you laugh on t'other side. Renounce the world-the preacher cries. We do a multitude replies.

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While one as innocent regards

A snug and friendly game at cards;

And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play:

Some love a concert, or a race;

And others shooting, and the chase.

Reviled and loved, renounced and followed,
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed;
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he:

With sophistry their sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

ON

THE DEATH

OF

LADY THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.

YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favourites shed, O share Maria's grief!

Her favourite, even in his cage,

(What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Assassined by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung, And though by nature mute,

Or only with a whistle blest,

Well-taught he all the sounds express'd Of flagelet or flute.

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