For thee veneration is daily extending, On a head that for want of it once was quite flat; If thus with my passion I find you contending, My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest; For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved, I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest; But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved! I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead I'll send unto thee;--then upon thee I'll call. Rejection--alas! to the lover how horrid-- When 'tis passion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL. THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. PUNCH. I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me-- Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha--would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime! And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash--otherwise Saltpeter. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly TERTIUM QUID, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine. A BALLAD OF BEDLAM. PUNCH. O, lady wake!--the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes. The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away; Still let us love, and e'en at last, We shall be happy yesterday. The early beam of rosy night Drives off the ebon morn afar, While through the murmur of the light The huntsman winds his mad guitar. Then, lady, wake! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free; Till the creation I am thine, To some rich desert fly with me. STANZAS TO AN EGG. [BY A SPOON.] PUNCH. Pledge of a feather'd pair's affection, Kidnapped in thy downy nest, Soon for my breakfast--sad reflection!-- Must thou in yon pot be drest. What are the feelings of thy mother? Poor bereaved, unhappy hen! Though she may lay, perchance, another, Thee she ne'er will see again.