But this is nought--of deadlier kind, A ninefold woe remains behind. O why were we so art and part? So like in taste, so one in heart? Nine cottages may be to let, But here’s the thought to make us fret, We cannot each add Frederick B. To our united family. THE DEAD ROBBERY. “Here’s that will sack a city.”--HENRY THE IVTH. Of all the causes that induce mankind To strike against themselves a mortal docket, Two eminent above the rest we find-- To be in love, or to be out of pocket: Both have made many melancholy martyrs, But p’rhaps, of all the felonies de se, By ponds, and pistols, razors, ropes, and garters, Two-thirds have been through want of _£. s. d.!_ Thus happen’d it with Peter Bunce; Both in the _dumps_ and out of them at once, From always drawing blanks in Fortune’s lottery, At last, impatient of the light of day, He made his mind up to return his clay Back to the pottery. Feigning a raging tooth that drove him mad, From twenty divers druggists’ shops He begg’d enough of laudanum by drops T’ effect the fatal purpose that he had; He drank them, died, and while old Charon ferried him, The Coroner convened a dozen men, Who found his death was _phial_-ent--and then The Parish buried him! Unwatch’d, unwept, As commonly a Pauper sleeps, he slept; There could not be a better opportunity For bodies to steal a body so ill kept, With all impunity. In fact, when Night o’er human vice and folly Had drawn her very necessary curtains, Down came a fellow with a sack and spade, Accustom’d many years to drive a trade, With that Anatomy more Melancholy Than Burton’s!