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That cost"--He had gone on, but here                Was stopt at once in his career.                  "Peace, brute! begone," the ladies cry,                The beaux exclaim, "Fly, rascal, fly!"                "I'll tear his eyes out," squeaks Miss Dolly,                "I'll pink his soul out," roars a bully.

At this the farmer sweats through fear, And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here, Steals off, and cries, "Ay, kill me, then,                Whene'er you catch me here again." So home he jogs, and leaves the Squire To cool the sparks, and ladites" ire.                Thus ends my tale, and now I'll try                 Like Prior, something to apply.

This may teach rulers of a nation, Ne'er to place men above their station; And this may show the wanton wit, That whilst he bites he may be bit.

B I L L Y D I P.

Chloe, a maid at fifty-five, Was at her toilette dressing: Her waiting-maid, with iron hot, Each paper'd curl was pressing.

The looking-glass her eyes engross, While Betty humm'd a ditty; She gazed so much upon her face, She really thought it pretty.

Her painted checks and pencil brows She could not but approve; Her thoughts on various subjects turn'd,                       At length they fixed on love.

"And shall," said she, "a virgin life                       Await these pleasing charms?                      And will no sighing blooming youth                        Receive me to his arms?--                      Forbid it, Love!” She searce had spoke,                        When Cupid laid a trap;