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"something good, that he might eat. હૃદ "pon was presently brought to him, which he "devoured, and likewise a pint of wine.

"Seeing this the advocate asked whether the "dead could eat? And being assured they "could and did, he then demanded some food, " which was brought to him, and he eat with "a good appetite. From this time he contin"ed to perform the actions of a man of `sound "understanding, and his melancholy was gradually removed. This history was made "into a farce, then printed, and often played "before his majesty, Charles IX. I being "présent."

SELECT SENTENCES.

POVERTY and riches are the names of want and sufficiency: he who wants any thing ought not to be called rich, and he who wants nothing, poor.

He who would lead a quiet and secure life, must not engage himself in many things, either publick or private; nor attempt any thing above his own ability and nature; but have such a regard to himself, as to decline any exuberance of fortune that is offered him, assuming no more than he is able to bear; for the convenience of what we enjoy is more excellent than the largeness of it.

POETRY,

FOR THE POLYANTHOS.

MY EDWIN.

WHO taught me love's extatick glow,
Whence all the joys of mortals flow,
And fill'd my heart with pleasing woe?

My Edwin.

With woe at first, because I fear'd,
Some happier maid his heart endear'd,
And naught but misery then appear'd,

My Edwin.

His melting voice dispell'd those fears, Drove back my sighs and dry'd my tears, And lovlier far than e'er appears

My Edwin.

When first he own'd the thrilling pow'r,
And ask'd my heart, my only dow'r,
Heav'n smil'd and bless'd the happy hour,
My Edwin.

And well he knew 'twas all his own,
My eyes, a thousand times had shewn
That there, his image reign'd alone,

My Edwin.

For ah! how vain is ev'ry art,
To hide the trembling maiden's heart,
Who feels of love the torturing smart,

My Edwin.

Who's now my guide in virtue's way,
Who is my leading star by day,

And in my nightly visions play?

My Edwin.

Who bids the tear spontaneous flow,
At every tale of others' woe?

And who'll to misery aid bestow?

My Edwin.

Who, when I fly with wild alarms,

From pending clouds and threatning storms, Will shelter me within his arms?

My Edwin.

Who oft at twilight's pensive hour,
Would wander with me in the bow'r,
And cull for me the fairest flow'r?

My Edwin.

Who'd pleasure with instruction blend,
Who strove my wayward heart to mend,
And prov'd the father, lover, friend?

My Edwin,

Dorchester, Jan. 6, 1807.

EMMA.

FOR THE POLYANTHOS.

FASHION.

The following lines were caused by the author's being called a Cynick for some observations he had made on Fashion.

I SEVERE? I a Cynick? good heaven forbid I rail'd at the fair;-but grant that I did, When truth is a libel I'll give up my cause, And, world-ruling fashion, I'll bow to thy laws. Cease, cease, cried an angry toned voice in my ear, (I shrunk into silence, appalled by my fear) 'Twas Fashion herself in her glory array'd, All her jewels, her gems, and her beauty display'd; Her hair artificial, in negligent fold

A gem bedecked comb, placed obliquely, did hold; Herforehead's fair curls her mild eyes scarcely shew, Her bosom expos'd, rose soft throbbing to view; Her arms, as they floated sublime on the air [bare, To shew their sweet form, to the shoulders were And her robe, thin and small, her fair form gave to sight,

That show'd through its folds a purpureal light.

Cease, traitor! she cried, nor my power disallow, I rule all the world from the throne to the plough; But chief o'er the fairest extends my domain, There unbounded, adored, despotick I reign; I teach them to dress, and to sing, and to dance, Send them waltzes so chaste, and cotillions from France.

Their minutes, swift flying, I crowd with delight,
Turn winter to summer, and day into night;
O my dearest delights! my visits, my calls
My parties, my dinners, assemblies, and balls,
And 'mong my attendants, I'm sure I ne'er had
Or Prudence, or Wisdom, or Religion, so sad.

But why should I name my delights as they rise,
My rites, never seen by your cynical eyes?
Our new modes of dress, and the colours we wear,
Thy dictates, Simplicity, ever held dear,

For to make our dress simple as grand-mother Eve's, Instead of our muslin we only want leaves.

As to you, Mr. Cynick, I sincerely advise That you strive little more in our favour to rise You must leave off your silence, your awkwardness,

And deck yourself out in Fashion's full bloom,
Learn to talk about nothing, be witty on weather,
And praise a new bonnet, admire a new feather;
And lastly, to gain the sure praise of the fair,
Learn to dress, lie, and flatter, dance waltzes and

swear.

FOR THE POLYANTHOS.

SONG.

I SAW a flower, fair, newly blown,
And thought to make its sweets my own:

But O! within its downy breast

It fondly lull'd a Bee to rest.