THE BROKEN DISH. WHAT's life but full of care and doubt, With parasols we walk about, We plant pomegranite trees and things, We gather flowers of every hue, Build summer-houses painted blue— Walking about their groves of trees, ODE TO PEACE. WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT. Он Peace! oh come with me and dwell But stop, for there's the bell. Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches, In loft or pew— Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's. Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods- Oh Peace! thou art the Goddess I adore- Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet That's Lord Drum's footman, for he loves a riot. Oh Peace! Knocks will not cease. Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plannedThat's Weippert's band. Oh Peace! how glad I welcome thy approaches- Oh Peace! oh Peace!-another carriage stops- Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander, But wait till I have showed up Lady Squander, Oh Peace!--but here comes Captain Hare, Oh Peace! if you do not disdain Susan, what business have you in my pantry? Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk, A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN. WHEN I reflect with serious sense, How soon I may be summoned hence— There's cook a-calling John. Our lives are built so frail and poor, On sand and not on rocks, We're hourly standing at Death's door- All human days have settled terms, This flesh of mine will feed the worms- And when my body 's turned to clay, O let them give a sigh and say— TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE'S DAY. MARY, you know I've no love-nonsense, Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature, May wish that she was half as plain. Your virtues would not rise an inch, Although your shape was two foot taller, And wisely you let others pinch Great waists and feet to make them smaller You never try to spare your hands From getting red by household duty; But, doing all that it commands, Their coarseness is a moral beauty. Let Susan flourish her fair arms And at your odd legs sneer and scoff, But let her laugh, for you have charms That nobody knows nothing of. |