Like this, breathed on by fell disease, grown dim.

Like glass is every strongest vow she makes,

Brittle as that, as easily she breaks;

Such is her honour. Short her fame, we find,

Which cracked, must perish by the first high wind.

On a Riding-House turned into a Chapel. BY MR. FARQUHAR.

A chapel of a riding-house is made,

Thus we once more see Christ in manger laid,

Where still we find the jockey trade supplied,

The laymen bridled, and the clergy ride.