TO THE IDLE OF MY HEART.
ark! to the Blarst of Waw, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
hit His the cannings Raw, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
yes! yes! that Marshall Orn, luv,
purclames i must be Gorn, luv,
and brake that Art of Yourn, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
wy duz that buzzum Sy, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
hand teers bejew that High, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
but Hair i Mounts my charjer, luv,
i Wood the gift wur Larger, luv,
take thou this Here mustarsher, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
we Har the boys for Luving, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
for deth we dont Care Nuffin, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
but Hif i Falls a marter, luv,
sa will you Hever Harter, luv,
weep Hore my sad Departur, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
THE SICK GOOSE AND THE COUNCIL OF HEALTH.
WELTHE, HELTHE, AND HAPPINESSE.
A RYGHTE MERRIE CONCEITTE.
In Inglande's fam'd Metropolis
There dwelte inne dayes of yore,
A wondrous greate Philosopher,
Uppe inne a seconde flore.
His lerninge was prodigious,
And ofte myghte he be sene,
Wastinge ye mydnyghte rushlyghte, o'er
Ye Pennie Magazene.
Eftsoons his fame came to ye eares
Of one steept to hys chinne
Inne sicknesse and inne miserie,
And shockinge shorte of tinne.
He hadde been jilted by ye mayde
Who sholde have been hys spouse,
He'd ye Lumbagoe inne hys loynes,
Ye Sherriffe inne hys house.
So he soughte out ye sage's celle,
Resolv'd to take advise,
And didde for ye Philosopher
Ye myddel belle ringe twyce.
Ye sage came downe immediatelie
Ye soundes felle onne hys eare,
Inne trothe ye greate Philosopher
Didde thynke it was hys beere.
But, whenne he saw ye Invalede,
And lernt whatte he didde lacke,
Ye sage he kindlie askéd hym
Uppe to his two paire backe:
For, like a nutte, ye sage was kinde
Atte hearte, tho' roughe inne huske,
And to afflixion kepte hys eares
Open from tenne tille duske.
So he ye sorrie Invalide
Withe everie kindnesse treted,
He drewe a trunke from neathe hys bedde,
And begg'd he wolde be seated.
"Now lette me heare from thee," he sedde,
"Thy sorrowfulle reporte;
Tho' yffe 'tis longe," observed the sage,
"Be plees'd to cutte itte shorte."
Thenne brieflie spoke ye Invalede,
"Ye wretche who to thee comes
Is sufferinge bytterlie from Love,
Lumbagoe, and ye Bummes."
"Butte," said ye greate Philosopher,
"Whatte seekeste thou of mee?
Thou arte a manne withe whom I feare
Itt's nearlie alle U—P."
"Oh no!" exclaim'd ye Invalede,
"You'll clere me from this messe,
Iffe you'll tell me ye Waye to Welthe,
And Helthe, and Happinesse."
"I feare," sedde ye Philosopher,
"Thatt's more thanne I canne doo;
To solve so deepe a problemme, boye,
Requires a pype or two."
He fill'd hys bowle, thenne pufft and thought,
And mutter'd "No! that's notte itte!
Ye waye to Welthe!—Yes! lette mee see!
I' feckings! boye, I've gotte itte!"
"Marke welle my wordes," thenne sedde ye sage,
"Yffe thou dost longe for rytches,
A quack Lyfe Pille withe golde wille fille
Ye Pockettes of your britches."
"Moste surelie," crie'd ye Invalede,
"Thatte is ye waye to Welthe;
Butte oh! thou greate Philosopher!
Whiche is ye waye to Helthe?"
"Thatte's quicklie tolde," returned ye sage,
"Ye Quacke Pille, whenne you make itte,
Lette others swallowe!—butte be sure,
Neverre yourselfe to take itte."
"Oh, lerned sage!" ye youthe exclaim'd,
"Thy wordes I'll live to bless!
Butte one more question stille remanes,
Ye waye to Happinesse."
"Yffe that you'd know," replied ye sage,
"Withe thee this maximme carrie;
As you wolde lede a happie lyfe,
Take my advise-Don't marry!"
Ye Invalede returnéd home,
And liv'd to be four score,
Amasst ne ende of golde, and died
A happie batchelore.
"THERE NEVER WERE SUCH TIMES."
Here we are again!
"Time Flies."
Just hatched.