Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay, Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms, Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay, Come, call around, a world of country charms. Let all this room, these walls dissolve away, And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place: This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play; Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face; My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream; My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream. The spell is wrought: imagination swells My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells! I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder, And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the WINDER! LINES TO BESSY. [BY A STUDENT AT LAW.] PUNCH. My head is like a title-deed, Or abstract of the same: Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st read Thine own long-cherish'd name. Against thee I my suit have brought, I am thy plaintiff lover, And for the heart that thou hast caught, An action lies--of trover. Alas, upon me every day The heaviest costs you levy: Oh, give me back my heart--but nay! I feel I can't replevy. I'll love thee with my latest breath, Alas, I can not YOU shun, Till the hard hand of SHERIFF death Takes me in execution. Say, BESSY dearest, if you will Accept me as a lover? Must true affection file a bill The secret to discover? Is it my income's small amount That leads to hesitation? Refer the question of account To CUPID'S arbitration. MONODY ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CLIENT. PUNCH. Oh! take away my wig and gown, Their sight is mockery now to me. I pace my chambers up and down, Reiterating "Where is HE?" Alas! wild echo, with a moan, Murmurs above my feeble head: In the wide world I am alone; Ha! ha! my only client's--dead! In vain the robing-room I seek; The very waiters scarcely bow, Their looks contemptuously speak, "He's lost his only client now." E'en the mild usher, who, of yore, Would hasten when his name I said, To hand in motions, comes no more, HE knows my only client's dead. Ne'er shall I, rising up in court, Open the pleadings of a suit: Ne'er shall the judges cut me short While moving them for a compute. No more with a consenting brief Shall I politely bow my head; Where shall I run to hide my grief? Alas! my only client's dead. Imagination's magic power Brings back, as clear, as clear as can be, The spot, the day, the very hour, When first I sign'd my maiden plea. In the Exchequer's hindmost row I sat, and some one touched my head, He tendered ten-and-six, but oh! That only client now is dead. In vain I try to sing--I'm hoarse: In vain I try to play the flute, A phantom seems to flit across-- It is the ghost of a compute. I try to read,--but all in vain; My chamber listlessly I tread; Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain; Ho! ho! my only client's dead.