VIRGIL.

  I have years on my back forty-eight,

SHAKSPEARE’S King Lear.

  Four-and-twenty lap-dogs, all of a row,
  Four-and-twenty monkeys, kits, and cats, dit-to;
  Four-and-twenty colours in her tawdry dress,
  (A rainbow she in all—­but its loveliness!)
  Four-and-twenty tempers, in the four-and-twenty hours;
  Four-and-twenty dreams of suppos’d vanquished pow’rs,
  To wit of four-and-twenty swains—­more or less;
  Who have four-and-twenty times, curs’d her ugliness! 
  Four-and-twenty trials, ere as many hours are o’er,
  Of four-and-twenty genera of rival Kalydor;
  Four-and-twenty scentings with her dear bergamot,
  Four-and-twenty daubs of her dear paint-pot;
  Four-and-twenty visitings to four-and-twenty friends,
  And four-and-twenty tales of ’em, before the day ends;
  Of these said four-and-twenty tales just four-and-twenty versions,
  And all of them of all the facts most farcica perversions. 
  Four-and-twenty false curls, * *

* * * * *

  Four-and-twenty false teeth, and quite as false a tongue,
  Which tells how virtuous was the world when—­she and it were young. 
  Or rather for these thirty years has moralizing told,
  How this good deed and that she’ll do, before she grows old: 
  Four-and-twenty sighs a-day, that our rude English sky
  Is not precise as she—­and may wash off the dye
  Meretricious of her cheeks, which are then like gold,
  (Though less tempting;) sweet and yellow as a marigold![2]
  Four-and-twenty wailings o’er the wedded state,
  Yet twice as many every day ’tis not her fate;
  Pretending to the world ’tis mere choice that has led
  To singleness—­yet choosing all the while to be wed,
  If any doting fool could be doting fool enough
  To bid for such a breaking down piece of stuff;
  For any such a winter, that has shed the flowers of spring,
  Whose autumn too is flown; nor left its fruit or any thing!

* * * * *

  Yes, such are the marks deep branded on a class
  Of busy blanks, non-entities, creation’s very farce;
  In these scales then be every piece of Eve’s flesh weighed,
  Find these criteria, and be sure you’ve found an—­Ancient Maid!

W. P——­N.

    [2] So much for the “heinous crime of self-painting;” as Lord
        Chesterfield says; in speaking of which, “It is even whispered
        about the town, (he observes) of that excellent artist,
        Mr. Liobard, that he lately refused a fine woman to draw her
        picture, alleging that he never copied any body’s works but his
        own and God Almighty’s!”

* * * * *

ANECDOTES, ROYAL AND NOBLE.