OVERS, we pray you, gaining our consents,
Let us, too, have our mediæval bents;
Give us, for cricket matches, tournaments.
THE WIDOWERS.
We are stout, nor will uncomfortably truss
Our arms and legs, like fowls; no jousts for us;
In armour we should look ridiculous.
THE FATHERS.
Of money, tournaments would cost a heap;
Humour your sweethearts, sons, with something cheap;
But look to settlements before you leap.
Once a Week.
E [Samuel Beazley] suffered considerably a short time before his decease, and, his usual spirits occasionally forsaking him, he one day wrote so melancholy a letter that the friend to whom it was addressed, observed, in his reply, that it was "like the first chapter of Jeremiah." "You are mistaken, my dear fellow," retorted the wit; "it is the last chapter of Samuel."
J. R. Planché, Recollections.