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SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE
THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA.
Oн, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
So when a child, as playful children use,
OF AN ADJUDGED CASE NOT TO BE FOUND
IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.
BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,
So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,
And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind.
Then holding the spectacles up to the courtYour lordship observes they are made with a straddle,
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,
Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?
On the whole it appears, and my argument shows With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how)
But what were his arguments few people know,
So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight-Eyes should be shut!.
BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S
TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS.
BY THE MOB IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780.
So then the Vandals of our isle,
Sworn foes to sense and law,
Have burnt to dust a nobler pile
Than ever Roman saw!
And MURRAY sighs o'er Pope and Swift,
And many a treasure more,
The well-judg'd purchase, and the gift,
That grac'd his letter'd store.
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,
The loss was his alone;
But ages yet to come shall mourn
The burning of his own.
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 Mem'ry, like the bee, that's fed
From Flora's balmy store,
The quintessence of all he read
Had treasur'd up before.
The lawless herd, with fury blind,
Have done him cruel wrong;
The flow'rs are gone-but still we find
The honey on his tongue.