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Mr. A.-Madam, to shew that Wood can speak,

I English talk, nay sometimes Greek,
Yet I am Ash, and Ash is IVood,
And you'd soon find I'm flesh and blood.

The following EPIGRAMS were written extempore, on its being reported Lord Il'hitworth had left Paris, but the French had. detained his Plate. The Epigrams are puns upon the word Plate; likening his Lordships Pluto to that which Race Horses run for.

EPIGRAM I.

THE French so skilful in each jockeying art,
Have stole the Plate, for which they durst not start ;
Yet why not start? since this our tars can tell,
If they don't fight our ships, they run them well.

EPIGRAM

EPIGRAM II.
TUE French so lean for running sure were mode,
Then why of England's speed is France afraid ?
Besides, by sca they always win the day,
And beat the English, when they run away.

IN consequence of of GEORGE the Second offering Dr. IILLS the Sees of Bath and lills, in this interrogatory way, Whether would you like, Ductor, to Bishop of bath, or I'ells ?" The Doctor being a North Britun, ansuered in the broad Scotch accent, Laith, if it please your Majesty," which set the King a laughing, as the Doctor's pronunciation u is so ambiguous, it would apply either to the Il'ords Bw:h, or both.

SAYS Dr. Wills, in George the second's reign,
Who tried to pose the Doctor, but in vam,
Your Majesty is pleas’d of me to ask,
To answer which I find no arduous task;
Whether of Bath, or Wells, I'd Bishop be?
Baith, if it plcase you, Sire, would best suit me,
For I prefer the two Sees, to the one See.

AN EXPLANATORY NOTE.

We now present Mr. and Mrs. Day's Poetry,

commencing with that of Mr. Day's. Mr. T. Lowndes never having considered his Poetry in any other light, than as increasing the size of the work.

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These four pages with asterisks have been added since

the rest of Mr. Day's Poetry was printed
off, having been accidentally found

among some old papers.

TO MISS *****

BY MR. DAY.

OH thou ! within whose gentle breast,
Each milder passion reigns confest, .
Whose feeling soul has learned to glow
With soft concern for ev'ry woe!
Oh, dearer to my wounded mind,
Thus tender, pitying, artless, kind,

Than

Than when o'er aw'd by beauty's blaze !
The wond'ring youths transported gaze !
For not the lustre of thy face,
Adorn's with ev'ry matchless grace;
For not the lightnings of thine eye,
Could e'er excite one tender sigh.
Let vulgar souls, by these inspir’d,
With transports fond and vain be fir’d;
For these neglect the trump of fame,
Or honour's wreath, or glory's flame:
But when to deck the brow of youth,
Are twin'd the sacred flow'rs of truth;
When innocence with candour join'd,
Protect and guide the virgin's mind,
'Tis then, in vain by wisdom steel'd,
The wise, the virtuous leain to yield ;
Then fall the gen'rous and the brave,
And reason stoops to be a slave.
Oh, free from all thy sex's wiles,
Their fickle tears, their faithless smiles,
Whose mind no worthless youth shall move,
With passion wild, or lawless love! :

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