THE KISS.
Give me, my love, that billing kiss
I taught you one delicious night,
When, turning epicures in bliss,
We tried inventions of delight.
Come, gently steal my lips along,
And let your lips in murmurs move
Ah, no!—again—that kiss was wrong
How can you be so dull, my love?
"Cease, cease!" the blushing girl replied
And in her milky arms she caught me
"How can you thus your pupil chide;
You know 'T WAS IN THE DARK you taught me!"
EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET—(ROBERT SOUTHEY.)
Beneath these poppies buried deep,
The bones of Bob the bard lie hid;
Peace to his manes; and may he sleep
As soundly as his readers did!
Through every sort of verse meandering,
Bob went without a hitch or fall,
Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine,
To verse that was no verse at all;
Till fiction having done enough,
To make a bard at least absurd,
And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF.,
He took to praising George the Third:
And now, in virtue of his crown,
Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter,
Like Donellan of bad renown,
Poisoning us all with laurel-water.
And yet at times some awkward qualms he
Felt about leaving honor's track;
And though he's got a butt of Malmsey,
It may not save him from a sack.
Death, weary of so dull a writer,
Put to his works a FINIS thus.
Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter
Than did his quartos upon us!