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Witty and Humorous Verse.

MERCUTIO'S

DESCRIPTION OF QUEEN MAB.

SHAKESPEARE'S "ROMEO AND JULIET."

O, THEN, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep :
Her waggon-spokes, made of long spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
Her traces, of the smallest spider's web;
Her collars, of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film:
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid :
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight;
O'er lawyer's fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtiers' nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear; at which he starts, and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab.

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NEEDY knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches.

Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, "Knives and
Scissors to grind, O!"

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you

?

Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes' distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit ?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.

Knife-Grinder:

Story! why bless you! I have none to tell, sir;
Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the Justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish

Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your honour's health, in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ;
But, for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir.

Friend of Humanity:

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee hanged first! Wretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to ven

geance.

Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast!

Kicks the Knife-Grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.

A PARENTAL ODE

ΤΟ MY

SON.

THOMAS HOOD.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing-bird that wings the air(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire !)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble !—that's his precious nose !)

Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!)

With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint— (Where did he learn that squint ?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off, with another shove !)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life-
(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick-
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose !

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,-
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above!)

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HE who's convinced against his will,
Is of the same opinion still.

BUTLER.

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