VERSES ON A SCOLD.
Mr. Thomas Fuller, a man admired for his wit, but whose great fault was that he would rather lose his friend than his jest, having made some verses upon a scolding wife, Dr. Cousin, his patron and benefactor, hearing them repeated, desired Mr. Fuller to oblige him with a copy of them; to whom he very imprudently, though wittily replied, “’Tis needless to give you a copy, doctor, for you have the original.”
NO ALTERNATIVE.
A porter passing near Temple Bar with a load on his shoulders, having unintentionally jostled a man who was going that way, the fellow gave the porter a violent box on the ear, upon which a gentleman passing exclaimed, “Why, my friend, will you take that?” “Take it,” replied the porter, rubbing his cheek, “don’t you see he has given it me.”
POINT DE TOUT LACE.
A lady raised from an obscure rank by a noble marriage, happened to be at court when the Spanish ambassador made his appearance with very great splendour. Among other things which drew attention, the richness of the laces were particularly noticed. On the return of this new-made lady of quality to her lord’s house, she met the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, to whom she related the splendour of the foreign minister, and dwelt particularly on the richness of the laces. “Pray, my lady,” said his lordship, “what kind of lace was it?” “Really, my lord, I forget the name, but I should know it if you mentioned it.” “Was it then point d’Espagnes?” “No, it was not that.” “Was it point de Brusselles?” “No, no; not that.” “Oh,” said the witty Earl, “I know now what it was, it was point de tout.” “You are very right,” replied the lady, “that was the name of the lace.”
MILTON.
When Milton was blind, he married a shrew. The Duke of Buckingham called her a rose. “I am no judge of colours,” replied Milton, “and it may be so, for I feel the thorns daily.”
ANOTHER VERSION.
Milton’s third wife was the daughter of Mr. Minshull of Namptwich, in Cheshire. She had an unhappy temper, but so fine a complexion that a French gentleman who once paid him a visit said, “Monsieur Milton, your lady is like the rose.” “It may be so,” replied the poet with a sigh, “but I am so unhappy as to be blind, and, alas! I have never found anything but the thorns.”