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If horseflesh won't suffice to serve the masses, The next resource will certainly be asses, And Heaven only knows where that will end: Some people won't have left a single friend.
On Easter Sunday Lucy spoke,
And said, " A saint you might provoke,
Dear Sam, each day, since Monday last;
But now, I see, your rage is past."
Said Sam, " What Christian could be meek !
You know, my love, 'twas Passion week ;
And so, you see, the rage I've spent,
Was not my own—'twas only Lent*'
TO MY WIFE.
To Thee, who bending o'er my table's rim Has marked these measures flow, these pages brim ; Who, linked for ever to a lettered life, Hast drawn the dubious lot of student's wife ; Kept hush around my desk, nor grudg'd me still The long, dull, ceaseless rustling of my quill. Content to guide the house, the child to teach, And hail my fitful intervals of speech ; Or bid the bald disjointed tale rehearse, Or drink harsh numbers mellowing into verse : Who still, mid cares sedate, in sorrows brave, Hast forme borne the light, and with me shared the grave, And grown from soft to strong, from fair to sage-Flower of my youth and jewel of my age ! To Thee these lays I bring, with joy, with pride, Sure of thy suffrage, if of none beside.
Rev. C. Merivale.
* Dedication of his Translation of the 'Iliad.'"