TO A
CONCEITED & AFFECTED, BUT HANDSOME WOMAN.
Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat, All flattery you despise?— Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that, And I am sure he lies.
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What a strong contrast to most modern sages Were some philosophers of ancient ages! E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too, Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew. Now! vain pretenders such presumption show, They seem to fancy that they all things know. Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity, Would that ye knew but half as much as he!

ON TWO SISTERS WHO ARE ALWAYS QUARRELLING.
Pale is Amelia's face, And red Lavinia's nose is; The sisters ever jar: 'Tis like the civil war Between the rival roses.
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On that dark theme, man's genealogy, How strangely people's notions disagree!— Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can trace Strong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:— My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to find Far more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:— Sure the reflection from their looking-glasses Into their minds,—to prompt opinion—passes. Would-be philosophers have tried to scan The pedigree of that odd creature, man. 'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries. Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise; (I, for my part, the compliment decline)— But do you, Sir, sincerely thus opine? 'I do indeed: nay more, I'm sure 'tis true!' Is't possible?—Yet, when I look on you,— I, verily, begin to think so too.
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'Oh! Doctor! I've had such a headache—so bad! I was fearful I should have gone out of my senses.' "I should not have wonder'd, dear Ma'am, if you had, You'd not have to go far to leap over those fences."

ON THE CONDUCT OF SOME FEW CLERGYMEN, WHO
ARE A DISGRACE TO THEIR SACRED PROFESSION.
Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion, Goes about, seeking whom he may devour. What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on? To guard his flock against the tempter's power.— Pshaw! what he chiefly looks at is to fleece 'em: To seize his prey, the tithes, and still increase 'em: Like a devouring lion is the priest; Or—give the devil his due—you'll own, at least, He has the marks about him of the beast.
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Why, Sir, so proud to sign your name M.D.? 'It means I'm member of the Faculty.' Hum!—from your practice else one might infer It meant mock-doctor, or death's minister.

ON THE MARCH OF INTELLECT.
'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry, Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty! March not so fast, my friends! or you will find, That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.
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One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle, Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle. 'What shall we play for?'—Edwin quickly cried; "Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied. 'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.' He wins the game, and straight demands his pay. "No"—'Yes'—"I wont"—'You shall'—"I wont be kiss'd: I'll pay you with a check—if you persist."

ON HEARING MR. **** BOAST THAT HE COULD
TRANSLATE VIRGIL.
Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate! Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated? To a far higher intellectual state, Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.
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A lady had a sickly son; A skeleton but for his skin:— Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;— The mother chid him for his sin.— 'Her charms were not to be withstood, Too tempting for frail flesh and blood! As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.' "That's no excuse for skin and bone."