From The French
ÆGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes;
She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.
Epitaph For William Pitt
With death doom'd to grapple,
Beneath this cold slab, he
Who lied in the Chapel
Now lies in the Abbey.
Epitaph
Posterity will ne'er survey
A nobler grave than this:
Here lie the bones of Castlereagh:
Stop, traveler--
A Riddle, On The Letter E
The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space,
The beginning of every end, and the end of every place.
Epigram
In digging up your bones, Tom Paine,
Will. Cobbett has done well:
You visit him on earth again,
He'll visit you in hell.
Epigram: The World Is A Bundle Of Hay
The world is a bundle of hay,
Mankind are the asses who pull;
Each tugs it a different way,
And the greatest of all is John Bull.
Epigram On My Wedding- Day To Penelope
This day, of all our days, has done
The worst for me and you :-
'Tis just six years since we were one,
And five since we were two.
Endorsement To The Deed Of Separation In The April Of 1816
A year ago, you swore, fond she!
'To love, to honour,' and so forth:
Such was the vow you pledged to me,
And here's exactly what 'tis worth.
On My Thirty-Third Birthday, January 22, 1821
Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing--except thirty-three.
On The Birth Of John William Rizzo Hoppner
His father's sense, his mother's grace,
In him I hope, will always fit so;
With--still to keep him in good case--
The health and appetite of Rizzo.
