A day's like a minute when she is in doors; My aunt in the attic, my uncle extatic! Encore the chromatique my Philomel pours! I lov'd her so dearly and truly, for really She cuts a mug * queerly, as Arthur's Queen Doll; She beats the tol lol O of Molly Brown hollow, And sings like Apollo in Gay's pretty Poll. I told her a rebus, I gave her a wee buss; She call'd me her Phoebus, her hero of pith; Her caraway comfit, her prime sugar plumb, fit For lady's lip, rum fit! her Lollypop Smith! * The Mugs out of which the violent politicians of Charles the Second's time drank their beer, were fashioned into the resemblance of Shaftsbury's face. Hence the common phrase, “Ugly Mug!” No more thought Teresa small tipple of me, sir, Than pretty Miss P., sir, our premiere danseuse, lightsome, lenitive! philoprogenitive! Sukey with bouquet and white satin shoes! To be, or not to be? is it a shot to be? Is it a knot to be, tied to a beam? Death's but a caper, life's but a taper, A vision, a vapour, a shadow, a dream. Hang melancholy! grieving's a folly! Laugh and be jolly! there's nothing like fun! I 'll make Miss Terese cry “Yes if you please!” And down on his knees shall Harlequin Lun.” “But the 'beautified Ophelia!' fickle, not false, and far less fickle than freakish! in all the tender distraction of Cranbourn Alley white muslin and myrtle, implored my forgiveness. Were her three-quarters' music and dancing to be thrown away upon a base barber? 'O ye, whose adamantine sorrows know The iron agonies of copper woe!'” Here the great Tragedian became overpowered, and cried a flood of stage tears very naturally. “_Encore! encore!_” shouted Uncle Timothy. Othello was at a loss whether or not to take this as a compliment, and weep a second brewing. He rubbed his eyes--but the Noes had it-- “Bigstick's himself again!” “On the disbanding of our troop, we hied to Stoke-Pogeis with a letter of introduction to the manager. Mr. Truncheon (his wig 'in most admired disorder,') started and exclaimed, 'What the deuce could Dunderhead have been about to send you here?' The other night Dowager Mucklethrift bespoke 'Too late for Dinner,' I speculated on one upon the strength of it, and treated the company (who were as thin as our houses,) to a gallon of 'intermediate,' when, lo! and behold! in she tottered with her retinue (a rush of two!) to the boxes, and her deaf butler Diggory, esquiring some half-dozen lady patronesses, hobbled up to the threepenny gallery to grin down upon us!