Your cat does my first in your ear, O that I were admitted as near; In my second I’ve held you my fair So long that I almost despair; But my prey if at last I o’ertake, What a glorious third I shall make. X. My first with more than quaker’s pride, At your most solemn duty, You keep, nor deign to throw aside, E’en though it veils your beauty. My second on your cheek or lip, May kindle Cupid’s fire, While from your eye or nose’s tip It ne’er provokes desire. But if your third you entertain For your unhappy poet, In mercy Chloe spare his pain, Not ever let him know it. The following specimens of good-natured levity and humour were also produced by him, without any study or previous meditation. The little girl, who was his favourite, as has before been mentioned, one day led him by the hand into the kitchen, to deliver a message to a servant. A young woman who had lived long in the family, and was much respected, was ironing linen. Her name was Susan, and the child desired Porson to write some verses upon her. Porson, as soon as he returned to the parlour, pronounced the following lines. When lovely Susan irons smocks, No damsel ere looked neater, Her eyes are brighter than her box, And burn me like a heater. On the extravagant terms of flattery, which Mr. Hayley and Miss Seward used in compliments to one another, Porson frequently indulged much satirical observation. The following dialogue is supposed to take place between the parties. MISS SEWARD _loquitur_. Tuneful Poet, Britain’s glory, Mr. Hayley that is you. HAYLEY _respondet_. Ma’am, you carry all before you, Trust me Lichfield Swan you do. MISS SEWARD. Ode, didactic, epic, sonnet, Mr. Hayley you’re divine. MR. HAYLEY. Ma’am, I’ll take my oath upon it, You yourself are all the Nine. Copied from Porson’s Manuscript, but whether his own or not is uncertain. DE CE LIEU DIEU SORT MORT SORT FORT DUR MAIS TRES SUR Qu a d t d p os nguis irus risti ulcedine avit. H sa m Ch m l Mors mortis morti mortem nisi morte dedisset, Aeternae vitæ janua clausa foret. FRENCH CHARADES. A Lise fais tu mon premier, Qui prend le vrai pour le grossier, Ne traite ne de gris ses yeux, Ni de mon second ses cheveux, On Lise en mon tout se mettra, Et tes cheveux arrachera. CHARADE BACCHIQUE.