Hook'd was her nose, and countless wrinkles told What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old.

When the clock told the wonted hour was come When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew, Right patient would she watch his wending home, His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. If long his time was past, and leaden sleep

O'er her tir'd eye-lids 'gan his reign to stretch, Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep,

And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach;

Haply if potent gin had arm'd her tongue, All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she

rung.

For though the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle O'er her cold bosom long had ceas'd to reign, On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile,

Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign: For wine she priz'd not much, for stronger drink Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, And for the medicine's sake, might envy think,

Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral;

Yet much the proffer did she loath, and say No dram might maiden taste, and often answer'd

nay.

So as in single animals he joy'd,

One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed;

The first the cate-devouring mice destroy'd, Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled:

All in the sun-beams basked the lazy cat,

Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat,

And loud he bark'd should Puss his right invade. The human pair oft mark'd them as they lay, And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they.

A room he had that faced the southern ray,
Where oft he walk'd to set his thoughts in tune,
Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway,
All to the music of his creeking shoon.
And at the end a darkling closet stood,

Where books he kept of old research and new,
In seemly order rang'd on shelves of wood,
And rusty nails and phials not a few:

Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, And papers squar'd and trimm'd for use unmeet to tell.

For still in form he placed his chief delight,
Nor lightly broke his old accustom❜d rule,
And much uncourteous would he hold the wight
That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool;
And oft in meet array their ranks he placed,

And oft with careful eye their ranks review'd; For novel forms, tho' much those forms had graced, Himself and maiden-minister eschew'd:

One path he trod, nor ever would decline A hair's unmeasur'd breadth from off the even line.

A Club select there was, where various talk
On various chapters pass'd the ling'ring hour,
And thither oft he bent his evening walk,
And warm'd to mirth by wine's enlivening
pow'r.

And oft on politics the preachments ran
If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume,
And oft important matters wou'd they scan,
And deep in council fix a nation's doom,
And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer,
Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they lov'd to
hear.

For men like him they were of like consort,

Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn,

Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport, And bless'd their stars that kept the curse from

them!

No honest love they knew, no melting smile
That shoots the transports to the throbbing

heart!

Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile

Lascivious smiling through the mask of art; And so of women deem'd they as they knew, And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew.

But most abhorr'd they Hymeneal rites,

And boasted oft the freedom of their fate; Nor 'vail'd, as they opin'd, its best delytes

Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait; And often would they tell of hen-peck'd fool

Snubb'd by the hard behest of sour-ey'd dame, And vow'd no tongue-arm'd woman's freakish rule Their mirth should quail, or damp their generous flame:

Then pledged their hands, and toss'd their bumpers

o'er,

And Io! Bacchus! sung, and own'd no other pow'r.

If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose

Within some breast of less obdurate frame, Lo! where its hideous form a Phantom shows Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name. Him Scorn attended with a glance askew, And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew,

And vex'd the region round the Cupid's throne: "Far be from us," they cry'd, "the treach'rous bane, "Far be the dimply guile, and far the flow'ry chain!'”

JOHN ARMSTRONG.

BORN 1709.-DIED 1779.

JOHN ARMSTRONG was born in Roxburghshire, in the parish of Castleton, of which his father was the clergyman. He completed his education, and took a medical degree, at the university of Edinburgh, with much reputation, in the year 1732. Amidst his scientific pursuits, he also cultivated literature and poetry. One of his earliest productions in verse, was an "Imitation of the Style of Shakespeare," which received the approbation of the poets Young and Thomson; although humbler judges will perhaps be at a loss to perceive in it any striking likeness to his great original. Two other sketches, also purporting to be imitations of Shakespeare, are found among his works. They are the fragments of an unfinished tragedy. One of them, the "Dream of Progne," is not unpleasing. In the other, he begins the description of a storm by saying, that

"The sun went down in wrath, the skies foam'd brass."

It is uncertain in what year he came to London; but in 1735 he published an anonymous pamphlet, severely ridiculing the quackery of untaught practitioners. He dedicated this performance to Joshua Ward, John Moore, and others, whom he styles "the Antacademic philosophers, and the generous

I despisers of the schools." As a physician he never obtained extensive practice. This he himself