266 Some Account of a Lover. SEPT. 



" future prospects." He said that it was all up with him, which I was 

 glad to hear, and remarked that, " in the other world, there would be found 

 no anxious tumults of the mind no falsehood no perjured inconstancy 



no " Here I drew out my pocket-handkerchief; and he plucked forth 



a lock of hair, in extent and quality resembling a horse's mane, which he 

 gazed upon with much sorrowful metamorphosis of visage. This settled, 

 he turned his memory to the manifold extravagancies of his youth parti- 

 cularly dwelling upon anight of inebriation and imprudence; and solemnly 

 recording, as a warning to youth, an exacted sum of five shillings, in which 

 he had been mulcted by the offended watchman. He also gave me a post- 

 obit, claim upon his aunt for the eighteen-pence and other loans I had 

 advanced on his .account an instance of affectionate remembrance, that 

 affected and, at the same time, comforted me. 



And now, all temporal affairs being concluded, it was evident that his 

 strength was quite spent, which was shortly afterwards verified by his soul's 

 perfectly unostentatious departure no notice whatever being given, save an 

 oblique protrusion of one leg, that dislodged a bundle of transversely- 

 arranged bones, which, upon examination, proved to belong to a helpless 

 being, 'yclept the nurse. This somnolent person, picking herself up, arid 

 rubbing* her eyes, observed, that her patient had died " like a lamb,'* 

 which satisfactorily accounted for his being " dead as mutton." Peace 

 to his ashes! 



" The course of true love never did run smooth." 



Thus have I, with infinite impartiality and justice, set down such parti- 

 culars of my late-lamented friend's fortunes as must extort no common 

 sympathy from readers of sentiment from lovers, whether hastening to a 

 wife or to a willow to a stagnant pond, or a less perturbed parson. lam 

 desine it is enough. 



After all, I cannot but agree with the philosophic Falstaff " There's 

 never any of these demure boys come to any proof." 



TO THE ZEPHYRS. 



HAIL to your glad return, ye Zephyrs bland! 

 Joining in dalliance with our new-born flowers. 

 Whose odorous beds are sweet as spicy bowers 

 Of your loved southern vales, or where ye fanned, 

 Upon her couch of roses, Beauty's queen, 

 What time enamoured of an earthly scene, 

 In her own Paphian groves she loved to stay, 

 Attended by heY handmaid Graces fair, 

 With whom, in myrtle arbours as they lay, 

 Passing the noontide hours, ye joined in play, 

 Loosening the bright braids of their golden hair, 

 Or the light covering stealing soft away, 

 Ye to their glowing bosoms would repair ! 

 Though those times are long past, nor Venus there, 

 Nor Graces now are known, your pastime still 

 Ye love to take by fountain, grove, and rill- 

 Nor to one spot confined, but with the spring 

 Ye coast the world around on viewless wing ; 



