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Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace
235 Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees, And envies every sparrow that he sees.
A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate; The doctor call’d, declares all help too late : • Mercy !' cries Helluo, “mercy on my soul ! 240 Is there no hope?-Alas !—Then bring the jowl.'
The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still tries to save the hallow'd taper's end ; Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. 245
• Odious! in woollen ! 'twould a saint provoke! Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke:
No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead :
250 And-Betty-give this cheek a little red.' that he conceived dancing to be a cure for all the evils of life. In the midst of queen Anne's grief for the loss of her hus. band, prince George of Denmark, he solicited an interview, and solemnly assured her majesty, that she wanted nothing but a course of dancing to make her forget all misfortunes. The epithet sober' to this venerable professor of consolation seems somewhat inapplicable. 241 Bring the jowl.
Puisqu'il faut que je meure,
Sans faire tant de façon,
Le reste de mon poisson.-La Fontaine. 245 And in that puff expires. Told by lady Boling broke of an old Parisian countess.
251 And, Betty, give this cheek a little red. The mistress was the
The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined A humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir :
254 • If, where I'm going, I could serve you, sir ?'
I give and I devise,' old Euclio said, And sigh’d, “my lands and tenements to Ned.' Your money, sir?—“My money, sir! what, all ? Why,-if I must-(then wept) I give it Paul.' The
manor, sir !--The manor ! hold,' he cried ; • Not that,- I cannot part with that;' and died. And
you, , brave Cobham! to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death : Such in those moments as in all the past ;“, save my country, Heaven !' shall be your last.
celebrated Mrs. Oldfield; the maid Mrs. Saunders, her friend, also a clever actress.
Lord Cobham, in a letter to Pope on the subject, adds these whimsical instances, which seem to have occurred at the time:
- What do you think of an old lady dressing her silver locks with pink, and ordering her coffin to be lined with white quilled satin, with gold fringes? Or counsellor Vernon, retiring to enjoy himself with five thousand a year, which he had got, and retu ing to chancery, to get a little more, when he could not speak so loud as to be heard ?'
261 I cannot part with that. The words of sir William Bate. man in his last moments. Warton justly observes, that the realities of avarice and gluttony defy all exaggeration,