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YEAR, most propitious, to our earthly leaven!
The eighteenth century, and twenty-seven!
For ever, may, thy fame be kept, in mind,
By all the vot'ries of that urchin, blind,
Whose barbed darts, promiscuously, bold,
Without distinction, pierce the young, and old:
In ev'ry class, his trade is sure to thrive,
And witless fifteen weds with ninety-five!

Long had, together, pac'd Brighthelmstone's sands
Long talk'd of love, and Hymen's silken bands


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Long trod the streets-long scour'd the dusty roads,
From Town, to Brighton-eyed those blest abodes,
Where Florizel enjoy'd Perditta's charms,

And fat, fair, forty sunk, in George's arms :-
Long, Harriet, wistful view'd the ducal crown,
Long, practis'd smiles displac'd her temper's frown—
Long, Beauclerc sigh'd for Coutts' exhaustless bag,
Deplor'd its price;-yet would not lose the swag.

Again, a respite, to that fatal day,

When she, her cash, and he, his fame, must pay.
The sighing dolts, once more, their wits, apply,
To chace their fears-and, once more, travel try.
Their gaudy trains, now, hasten to set forth,
From murky London, to the keener North

Attract all eyes, in ev'ry place they pass,
She, a rich, he, a half-bred ass:


Doubting, between two hay-stacks, there he stands,
Until his feet exclaim, pray, help us, hands!

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O'er England's borders, onward, still they tour-
"Tis pleasant trav'ling, in a chaise and four,
With money, plenty all the world attends
All strive to grace their list of honor'd friends.




The "March of Intellect" brooks no control→,
She "feast of reason," and he "flow of soul."

From John o'Groat's, to the Land's End they fly-
The Scots aw, boo-John Bull's in ecstacy.


Sure, such a pair," till now," was never seen," ́5 h.."

So form'd, by nature's self, to meet, I ween, m

Addresses, may, from Corporations, come,

Invites, and dinners want us, next, "at home."

Before we part, exclaims the fair, decide,

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To take me, to thy bed, a blooming bride, och or T

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What! Hesitate, Automaton? I say,
Marry thou shalt, or, on the low'ring day,
In June, thou promised'st, my Coutts, to pay,
D-n me, the mortgage, if I don't foreclose,
And give, to all the Beauclerc's, such a dose


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Thou, and thy bare-breech'd brethren, shall deplore
Lands, houses, incomes, lost, for ever-more

Thy sisters, then, their kindred equals meet,

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With mutual welcome, houseless, in the street.


Convinc'd the enamoured swain groan'd, shook his head'Tis hard-but I must have a Wife, for-bread.

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