MRS. F.

The sand—O Lord! to stop my mouth! how every thing is planned!

BOATMAN.

The handspike, Bill—quick, bear a hand! now Ma’am, just step ashore!

MRS. F.

What! an’t I going to be kill’d—and welter’d in my gore?

Well, Heaven be praised! but I’ll not go a sailing any more!

A SPENT BALL.

“The flying ball.”—GRAY.

A BALL is a round, but not a perpetual round, of pleasure. It spends itself at last, like that from the cannon’s mouth; or rather, like that greatest of balls, “that great globe itself,” is “dissolved with all that it inherits.”