He Discourseth of Trouble and Sorrow.     

    What else do they live for? They live but for this; And nothing but this ever troubles their thinking; Rich eating, rich dressing, and flirting's their bliss, And life's better purposes constantly blinking. Their life's but a tissue of trouble and sorrow Of what is the fashion or will be to-morrow. 

  

  

       He Moralizeth upon what a Day may Bring forth.     

    “To-morrow!” who'll warrant to-morrow we'll see? Who'll care the next day or day after for dinner? Or what the next fashion of new dress will be? Or who Mrs. Grundy will say is the winner? Having reached Thirtysixthly, the Author is about to Make the “Application,” and Pray forgiveness, but concludes by remaining Incog.     “Who'll care for, to-morrow, for this bit of scandal, With malice prepense that a cynic has written?     (That's what they will say when the poem they handle, Who feel 'tis themselves whom the mad dog has bitten; And wish he was treated as dogs with the rabies Are treated, to stop his unmannerly bark; Or packed off to bed as you do naughty babies, To sleep, or be frightened all alone in the dark.)     Who'll care? why the author of this ugly poem—    He'll care—for a reason—that all of you read it—    He'll care for the cash you'll give—Oh! how he needs it—    (Oh! what would you give, ladies dear, just to know him?—)     But that, by your leave, by the aid of the elf The printer employs, he will keep to himself. He knows, if you knew him, what fate he would meet; At every table you'd give him—nothing to eat. Excuse then, dear ladies, the author his shyness, And accept his conge at the end of this 

       FINIS.     

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