1_mo._ Should anything tease you, Annoy, or displease you, Remember what Lilly says, "_Animum rege!_" And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing,-- In all good society voted past bearing,-- Eschew it! and leave it to dustmen and mobs, Nor commit yourself much beyond "Zooks!" or "Odsbobs!" 2_do._ When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality, Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality! For should you come late, And make dinner wait, And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate, The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate. And though both may perhaps be too well-bred to swear, They'll heartily _wish_ you--I will not say _Where_. 3_tio._ Look well to your Maid-servants!--say you expect them To see to the children, and not to neglect them! And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery. Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums, And from pears in the season,--and sucking their thumbs! 4_to._ To sum up the whole with a "saw" of much use, Be _just_ and be _generous_,--don't be _profuse!_-- Pay the debts that you owe, keep your word to your friends, But--DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS!!-- For of this be assured, if you "go it" too fast, You'll be "dished" like Sir Guy, And like him, perhaps, die A poor, old, half-starved Country Parson at last! A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS "Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ, et ecce Divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit."--ROGER HOVEDEN. "Lord Abbot! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess; I am a-weary, and worn with woe; Many a grief doth my heart oppress, And haunt me whithersoever I go!" On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid; "Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!"-- "Now naye, fair daughter," the Lord Abbot said, "Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be. "There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John, Sage penitauncers I ween be they! And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell, Ambrose, the anchorite old and gray!" --"Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John, Though sage penitauncers I trow they be; Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone-- Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee. "Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine! I am a maiden royally born, And I come of old Plantagenet's line.