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Here comes the sorry elf,
The man who rarely gets a bone
To pick, but chumps his crust alone,
That moulders on the shelf.
Behold him in his nook, I ween,
Where any thing but comfort’s seen,
Around his dingy hole;
Anon he darns his tatter’d hose,
Or cleans a napkin for his nose,
The groom of his own stole!
’Tis passing strange, the secret’s out,
Why who would pair with such a lout,
With ideas unrefin’d;—
Neglected and despis’d you live,
While inly to yourself you grieve,
The fair are so unkind.
PROSE EPISTLES.
Sir,
I know not in what words to convey the sense I have of your merit; custom prevents a female disclosing her affection to the object on whom her heart fondly doats, but if you knew how much I esteem and admire you, you would not thinkmeimprudent in declaring my passion I have frequently thought, before I committed this to paper, it is not so great an impropriety in expressing my regard first, and am very sure you can guess who the writer is; therefore, if
