PRELUDIUM.

SCENE.—An Apartment in the House of Francis Moore, in which that renowned Physician and Astrologer is discovered, lying at the point of death. The Nurse is holding up his head, while a skilful Mediciner is dispensing a potion. Sundry Old Women surround his couch, in an agony of grief. The Astrologer starteth up in a paroxysm of rage.

Moore. "Throw physic to the dogs," I'll gulp no more.

I'm done for: my prophetic life is o'er.

Who are these hags? and wherefore come they here?

Old Women. Alack! he raves, and knows us not, poor dear!

To think he should his only friends forget!

Who've fostered him, and made him quite a pet.

Moore. Begone, ye beldames! wherefore do ye howl?

Old Women. We've come to comfort your unhappy sowl.

Nurse. 'Tis the Old Women,—pr'ythee, do not scare 'em,—

Who to the last have bought your Vox Stellarum;

They're sorely griev'd, and fear that you will die;

And then, alack-a-day! who'll read the sky?

Moore. Oh, ah!—yes—well,—just so—just so,

I see—I feel—I smell—I know—I know.

Nurse. Poor soul! he's going fast. Oh! shocking shock!

So kind a master.... Bless me! there's a knock!

Enter Rigdum Funnidos, in deep mourning.

Rig. Fun. "Ye black and midnight hags! what is't ye do?"

Nurse. Speak softly, Sir; my master's turning blue.

He's not been sensible since last November.

Rig. Fun. (aside) Nor ever was, that I can e'er remember.

But we must talk before his course is run.

Moore. Who's that?—my sight grows dim—Is't Rigdum Fun?

Rig. Fun. The same, great Moore!

Moore. But, bless me! all in black!

What! mourn a living man! Alack! alack!

Rig. Fun. I wear prospective mourning, thus to shew

The solemn grandeur of prophetic woe.

Moore. The thought is lively, though the subject's grave;

And, therefore, you my free forgiveness have.

Rig. Fun. How can I serve you, ere you vanish hence?

Moore. I wish you'd cut the throat of Common Sense.

To him I owe my death. That cruel wight

Long on my hopes has cast a fatal blight.

I knew I had receiv'd the mortal blow,

When first he wounded me, six years ago;

And every year the knave has stronger grown,

While ev'ry year has sunk me lower down.

Rig. Fun. I will avenge you;—nay, I'll go much further:

The "Crowner's quest" shall find him guilty "Murther."

The common hangman shall cut short his breath;

And, by a shameful end, avenge your death.

Moore. 'Tis kindly said; and I in peace shall die.

Say, is there aught that you would ask of I?

Rig. Fun. Oh, Francis Moore! who soon no MORE wilt be;

I came, a precious boon to beg of thee:—

One gracious favour, ere you breathe your last,—

On ME your Prophet's mantle deign to cast!

Let me be raised to your deserted throne,

And call your countless subjects all my own.

Then let the mirth, they levell'd once at thee,

Fall, if it will, with tenfold force on me.

If all will laugh at me, who laugh'd at you,

The frowns of fortune I no more shall rue;

Nay, with such temper would I bear their jeers,

I could endure them for a hundred years.

Moore. Life's ebbing fast; my sands are nearly run;

But you shall have what you request, my son!

Now, sit you down, and write what I shall say,—

The last bright glimmerings of the taper's ray.

I'll shew you how to pen those strains so well,

Of which the meaning no one e'er could tell.

Send forth the women;—draw a little nigher;

My brain is heating with prophetic fire.

Rig. Fun. Matrons, abscond! (They depart glumpishly; carrying

off the Mediciner.) Now, Dad, I'm all attention,

To learn the wisdom that's past comprehension.

Moore. "The fiery Mars with furious fury rages."

Rig. Fun. I've penn'd that down, most erudite of sages!

Moore. "The Dog-star kindles with inflaming ire."

Rig. Fun. Just wait a moment, while I stir the fire.

Moore. "Terrific portents flame along the sky;

"I know the cause,—but dare not mention why."

Rig. Fun. (aside) Which shews your prophecying's all my eye.

Moore. "The planets are the book in which I read,—"

Rig. Fun. I'm very glad to hear that you succeed.

You've better luck than when you went to school;

For there, I guess, they perch'd you on a stool.

Moore. I read this solemn truth, as in a glass,—

'Whate'er will happen's sure to come to pass;'

"And if it don't, why 'set me down an ass.'"

Rig. Fun. That's done already; for to me 'twas plain,

An ass you were, and ever would remain.

Moore. Avaunt! I'll speak no more to ears profane.

[The scene openeth, and discovereth the Shade of the great Astrologer, Lilly, enveloped in a fog, who claspeth Francis Moore in his arms, and mizzleth off with him in a mist.—N.B. The renowned Physician droppeth his threadbare mantle, which falleth on Rigdum Funnidos, who maketh his exit therewith joyfully.

JANUARY.			[1835.

		When you first go to bathe, gentle Sir, in a river,
		If you dip in one foot, it will give you a shiver;
		But if you've the pluck to plunge in your whole body,
		You'll not shiver at all, you poor timid noddy!
		Just so with my rhymes,—I've got thro' my first trouble:
		Had I stood shilly-shally, my toil had been double.
M	Season's	Odd Matters.	WEATHER.
D	Signs.
1	toes

2	nose	COMFORTS OF THE SEASON.	Weather

3	froze	Chilblains sore on all your toes,	likely
		Icicles hang from your nose
4	blue	Rheumatis' in all your limbs;	☍ ☌ △ ♄
		Noddle full of aches and whims;
5	who	Chaps upon your hands and lips,	to be
		And lumbago in your hips.
6	you	To your bed you shiv'ring creep,	cold
		There to freeze, but not to sleep;
7	ice	For the sheets, that look so nice,
		Are to you two sheets of ice;	□ ♃ △ ♂
8	trice	Wearied out, at length you doze,
		And snatch, at last, a brief repose,	if
9	down	Dream all night that you're a dab,
		Lying on fishmonger's slab.
10	crown	While indulging in a snore,	the frost
		There comes a rap at chamber door;
11	folk	Screaming voice of Betty cries:
		"If you please, it's time to rise."	△ ⚹ ☉
12	joke	Up you start, and, on the sheet,
		Find your breath is chang'd to sleet;	is very old:
13	in	Tow'rds the glass you turn your view,
		Find your nose of purple hue,
14	grin	Looking very like, I trow,	If no snow
		Beet-root in a field of snow.
15	out	You would longer lie, but nay,	☿ ♄ △ ♂ □
		Time is come,—you must away.
16	shout	Out you turn, with courage brave,
		Slip on drawers,—and then to shave!	should
17	cram	Seize the jug, and in a trice,
		Find the water chang'd to ice:	chance to
18	ham	Break the ice, and have to rue
		That you've broke the pitcher too.	fall
19	jam	Water would not run before;
		Now, it streams upon the floor,
20	dram	Threat'ning with a fearful doom,	□ ☌ ⚹ ☉
		Ceiling of the drawing-room.
21	twelfth	In the frenzy of despair,
		You seize you don't know what, nor care,	then
22	night	Mop up all the wet and dirt,
		And find you've done it with your shirt;	perhaps
23	bright	Your only shirt,—all filth and slosh,—
		For all the rest are in the wash.
24	sight	Into bed you turn again,	☿ △ ♂ ☉ ⚹
		Ring the bell with might and main,
25	bake	Stammer out to Betty, why	□ ♄
		'Twixt the sheets you're forc'd to lie,
26	cake	'Till, pitying your feelings hurt,
		She dabs you out another shirt.	no frost
27	nice

28	slice		☉ □ △

29	twice
			at all.
30	quaff

31	laugh		♃ △ ☍ □ ♂

JANUARY.