Epigram On Hearing A Lady Talk Very Fast And Unintelligibly

Words upon words impetuous rush along,
And tread each other's brains out as they throng.

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'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'
Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries
'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view?
And such a fine complexion's ivory hue?
Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn:
Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn.

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I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me; what then?
Don't we all know that monkies mimic men?
'I cannot say your poem I admire;
It wants originality and fire;
Besides, I find it, by no means, correct;
You've written it in haste, I should suspect,'
"What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?"
'I shall think so if you so loudly bray.'

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A worthy man of rags
Intreats for charity
A rogue of money-bags.
'Pshaw! it at home begins.'
Then serve thyself and me;
For it will be no less
A cover to thy sins,
Than to my nakedness.

The Fair-one, at her toilet, thus exprest
The ambitious aims that swell'd her panting breast:
'Pull, Fanny, pull again, with all your might;
I must, to-day, be laced up very tight;
For, to a glorious conquest I aspire:
Know, that two Noblemen my charms admire!
Pull, then, good girl! I'll be so tightly laced,
That half-a-yard will measure round my waist.'
'Hold!' Cupid cries, 'for Love's, for Pity's sake;
You'll strangle Beauty, and my bowstring break.'

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In altering thus and shortening his oration,
Sure the Reporters do Lord Flimsy wrong;
It well may fill his Lordship with vexation,
When he has toil'd so hard to make it long.
'I've writ an epigram; here, read it, do.
The critics praise it highly: what think you?'
"I don't much like it." 'No! 'tis very fine.'
"It may be to your taste 'tis not to mine."
'I say 'tis finely pointed.' "Well! so be it!
The point may be too fine for me to see it."
'Then, let me tell you, Sir, you must be blind.'
"Many more like me I'm afraid you'll find."

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Wise radicals! to make it bear more fruit,
They fain would tear the tree up by the root.
Young trees, we know, may sometimes thrive transplanted,
But old ones can't; 'tis by all gardeners granted.
'Twill die; and when the good old tree is dead,
What sort of tree, pray, will they plant instead?

The Squire has long imagined that his son
Is deeply studying Coke and Lyttelton.
They meet. 'Dear Tom! to see you gives me joy.
How get you on in Law? my clever boy!
In practice too? But Tom, what bills you draw!
Expensive work this studying of the law!'
The sly young Templar gulls his easy Sire:
"O! I get on, Sir, to my heart's desire;
In chamber-practice I have much to do."
His answer in a certain sense is true.

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To move her lover, a coquetish Miss
Began to sob, pretending she should faint;
Her maid restored her straight by whispering this:
'I fear, my lady, you forget your paint.'