THE DEAD MISER.
From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes,
What a villainous odor invades all our noses!
It can't be his BODY alone—in the hole
They have certainly buried the usurer's SOUL.
ON FELL.
While Fell was reposing himself on the hay,
A reptile conceal'd bit his leg as he lay;
But all venom himself, of the wound he made light,
And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.
THE BAD ORATOR.
So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech,
One scarcely can tell if you're laughing or crying;
Were you fix'd on one's funeral sermon to preach,
The bare apprehension would keep one from dying.
THE WISE CHILD.
How plain your little darling says "Mamma,"
But still she calls you "Doctor," not "Papa."
One thing is clear: your conscientious rib
Has not yet taught the pretty dear to fib.
SPECIMEN OF THE LACONIC.
"Be less prolix," says Grill. I like advice—
"Grill, you're an ass!" Now surely that's concise.