O pateo tulis aras cale fel O, Hebetis vivis id, an sed "Aio puer vello!" Vittis nox certias in erebo de nota olim,-- A mite grate sinimus tonitis ovem: "Præ sacer, do tellus, hausit," sese, "Mi Molle anni cano te ver ægre?" Ure Molle anu cano te ver ægre. Vere truso aio puellis tento me; Thrasonis plano "cum Hymen" (heu sedit), "Diutius toga thyrso" Hymen edidit;-- Sentior mari aget O mare nautis alter id alas! Alludo isto terete ure daris pausas anas. "O pater hic, heu vix en" ses Molle, and vi? Heu itera vere grates troche in heri. Ah Moliere arti fere procaciter intuitis! Vos me! for de parte da vas ure arbuteis. Thus thrasonis planas vel huma se, Vi ure Molle anu cano te ver ægre. Betæ Molle indulgent an suetas agile,-- Pares pector sex, uno vimen ars ille; "Quietat ure servis Jam," sato heras heu pater, "Audio do missus Molle, an vatis thema ter? Ara mi honestatis, vetabit, diu se,-- O mare, mi dare, cum specto me: Ago in a væ æstuare, vel uno more illic, O mare, mi dare, cum pacto ure pater hic." Beavi ad visu civile, an socia luse, Ure Molle an huma fore ver ægre. _Key._ MY MOLLY AND I. O Paty O'Toole is a rascally fellow, He beat his wife's head, and said, "I hope you are well, O!" With his knocks, Sir, she has in her body not a whole limb,-- A mighty great sin I must own it is of him. "Pray say, Sir, do tell us, how is it," says he, "My Molly and I cannot ever agree?" Your Molly and you cannot ever agree: Very true, so I hope you will listen to me; The _rason_ is plain, "O come, Hymen" (you said it), Do ye tie us togather. So Hymen he did it. Since your marriage to Mary now 'tis alter'd, alas! All you do is to _trate_ your dear spouse as an ass. "O Patrick! you vixen," says Molly, and why? You hit her a very great stroke in her eye. Ah Molly! her heart I fear _proke_ as 'twere in two it is! Woes me! for departed away sure her beauty is. Thus the _rason_ is plain, as well you may see, Why your Molly and you cannot ever agree. Be to Molly indulgent and _swate_ as a jelly,-- Pay respect to her sex, you know women are silly: "Quite at your service, I am," say to her as you pat her, "How d'ye do, Misses Molly, and what is the matter? Arah, my honey! stay, 'tis, wait a bit, d'ye see;-- O Mary, my _dary_, come _spake_ to me: A-going away is't you are, well you no more I'll lick, O Mary, my _dary_, come _pack_ to your Patrick." Behave, I advise you, and so shall you see, Your Molly and you may for ever agree. E. N. Replies to Minor Queries.