ANOTHER.

PLUS ULTRA.

SUNDAY, which, by divine beheft,

Was first pronounc'd a day of rest,
By fashion's mandate now becomes
A day of hurricanes, routs, and drums.

Can profligacy farther go?

It can-if not in guilt-in woe :—
Woe, from that very guilt accruing ;
Difgrace-remorfe- defpair-and ruin.

ANOTHER.

PLUS ULTRA.

DIAGORAS, an Athenian wight,

A wooden HERCULES made;

To which at morn, and eke at night,
He conftant orifons paid.

Twelve Labours by his Deity wrought,
In folemn hymns he prais'd;

And from fuch warm devotion thought,
A powerful patron rais'd.

Year after year, this course he drove ;
Still pray'd; ftill poorer grew;

At laft the timber fon of Jove

Amidft the flames he threw.

"My daily theme,"quoth he, "erewhile,

"Thy labours twelve have have been ;

"Now help the fire my pot to boil ;"And that will make thirteen !"

ANOTHER.

PLUS ULTRA.

VIRTUE's a fund of unexhaufted ftore:

For there, the very wish of more

is more!

Οτι

ANOTHER.

PLUS ULTRA.

UR glorious QUEEN BESS, 'tis in ftory recorded, At fome feafon more folemn of festival sport, With the law's highest honours LORD HATTON rewarded,

For dancing fo gracefully nimble at Court.

For integrity, candour, sense, learning, and spirit, Of each fage, on each bench, we may justly talk

big;

But the QUEEN had, we find, one more standard

of merit ;

'Twas fuperior addrefs-in performing a jig!

ANOTHR.

FLUS ULTRA.

AT NOTTINGHAM, fays tradition's tale,

They drink off, by the yard, their ale :

So far, no peril would enfue,

Did none to length add number too,
Extend tradition's tale ftill more,

And drink the yards off-by the score !

ANOTHER.

PLUS ULTRA.

To make a plum-pudding, a French Count once

took

An authentic receipt, from an English Lord's cook: Mix fuet, milk, eggs, fugar, meal, fruit, and spice, Of fuch number, such measure, fuch weight, and fuch price;

Drop a spoonful of brandy, to quicken the mefs; And boil it for so many hours-more or less.Thefe directions were tried, but when tried had no

good in;

'Twas all wash and all squash, but 'twas not English

pudding:

And Monfieur in a pet fent a fecond request,

For the cook that prefcrib'd, to affift when 'twas dreft;

Who of courfe to comply with his Honour's

befeeching,

Like an old cook of Colebrook, march'd into the kitchen.

The French cooks, when they faw him, talk'd

loud and talk'd long;

They were fure all was right; he could find nothing

wrong:

Till just as the mixture was rais'd to the pot, "Hold your hands! Hold your hands!" fcream'd aftonish'd JOHN Trot:

"Don't you fee you want one thing, like fools as

"Vone ting, Sare! Vat ting, Sare !” —“ A PUD"DING CLOTH,-Sare!"