Who can believe with common sense, A bacon slice gives God offence; Or, how a herring has a charm Almighty vengeance to disarm? Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, Does he regard on what we dine?
Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock? No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes, Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock; Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,...
Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion, Goes about, seeking whom he may devour. What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on? To guard his flock against the tempter's power....
Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense; I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said, My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;...
We act by fits and starts, like drowning men, But just peep up, and then pop down again. Let those who call us wicked change their sense; For never men lived more on Providence....
'Enter' MRS. BULKLEY, 'who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter' MISS CATLEY, 'who stands full before her, and curtsies to the audience'.
Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, Have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail. Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit; And this is all their equipage of wit....
Most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown, They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own. Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass; But there goes more to a substantial ass:...
Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and--all that, And wondering much what little knavish sprite Had put it first in women's heads to write:--...
Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,-- But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,...
As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,...
From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast;...
Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London, You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane, No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said--...