116 A damsel she is, and her surname is Thorpe, And her Christian name is Ann;

Few lovers has she for her favours to hope,

For she is a hater of man.

Dr Southey.

117 'Tis Margaret, and rare Margaret, And Margaret o' verite.

Border Minstrelsy.

118 Your curricle is so reviving,

And Jane's so bold when you are driving.

Praed.

119 Thy Emma's young;

Her eye is patient, and she speaks in tones
So sweet, and of so pensive gentleness
That the heart feels them.

120 I must call her your cousin Margaret, However quaint amid the measured line The good old term appears.

Madoc.-Southey.

121 The beautiful Laura! who is just so fair That you can think her loveliest when alone, And still is not so wonderfully rare

122

123

That you can never find a prettier one.

Jane's to have five hundred pound
On her marriage paid down, ev'ry penny,
So you'll own a worse match might be found

Southey.

Willis.

Any day in the week than your Jenny. Rev. R. H. Barham.

Name! surely, Sir,

It can be none but Helen Campbell.

Talfourd.

124 'Tis Jenny Oakum, the ship-carpenter's widow at Portsmouth.

Ford.

125 Kate grows upon your heart like peace,

Creating every hour a jubilee.

Perkin Warbeck.-Ford.

Late of contraband schnaps an unlicensed distiller,

And her name is Des Moulins (in English, Miss Miller).

127 Thy Mary is the sweetest flower

That ever bloom'd in rustic bower;
As blithesome, graceful, glad, and gay,
As the wild bird upon the spray.

Rev. R. H. Barham.

Miss Pardoe.

128 Yours is no sordid suit! 'tis but to win a bride; Were Lucy yours, you'd seek no wealth beside.

129

130

131

To be plain,

You are in love; nay, shrink not, man, you are;
Bianca is your aim: Why do you blush ?
She is, I know she is.

You, I'm sorry to say,

John Ford.

(For, all things consider'd, I own, 'twas a rum thing)
Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von

something,

(Her name has escaped me) sole heiress and niece
To a highly respectable justice of peace. Rev. R. H. Barham.

A Helen, indeed! not to be won under ten years' siege: as great a beauty, and as great a jilt. John Ford.

132 Thy Nelly is a comely lass, but calm and staid her air, And earthward bends her modest look-yet is she passing fair. Rev. R. H. Barham.

133

You like Kate well; and I may tell you, I think she likes you well: If you agree, I'll not hinder the match. J. Ford.

134 There are flowers in the valley,

135

136

And fruit on the hill,
Sweet-scented and smiling,
Resort where you will.

But the sweetest and brightest,

In spring-time or summer,

Is the girl of thy heart,

The young Kate of Kilcummer.

A fair lady,

Quarterly Magazine, No. IX. 1828.

Of beauty the paragon, and she is called Katey.

Your heart felt a pain;

The Popular Songs of Ireland.

You sat yourself down, for you thought you were dying
For Judy M'Carthy of Fishamble Lane.

Popular Songs of Ireland.

137 But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with thy worthless gifts.

Two Gentlemen of Verona.

138 Your Mopsa is little, your Mopsa is brown,
But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down,
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round your heart,
That you ne'er from your dear little Mopsa can part,
Unless you can find one that's dearer.

139

Moore.

Anne Page, which is daughter to Master George Page; she has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman: the very person, for all the world, as you will desire; she has good gifts, £700 and possibilities. Merry Wives of Windsor.

140 Sweet Maria, empress of thy love.

Shakspeare.

141

142

143

Kate, like the hazel-twig,

Is straight and slender; and as brown in hue
As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.

Flora's fair, most fair:

Taming of the Shrew.

Yet do you almost fear yourself, and doubt
Your own high constancy.

Lady E. Stuart Wortley.

Have you not pledged your hand

In the most solemn manner to Constantia? James Thomson.

144 Fanny Flip-flap, the French dancer.

145 "Tis fresh in murmur (as, you know,
What great ones do, the less will prattle of)
That you do seek the love of fair Olivia.

146

147

148

Samuel Foote.

Twelfth Night.

It is impossible for you to quit town, and leave your dearest Jenny behind; there your heart's treasure lies hid, and there, spite of yourself, you are carried by an irresistible impulse. Samuel Foote.

Thy slavish love's for that poor, brainless chit, Flora Clanronald! with her soulless charms.

Eva.-Lady E. S. Wortley.

You flattered yourself with gently sliding the down-hill of life, subject to no other will but Miss Kitty's.

Samuel Foote.

XII.

SHALL I DIVULGE HER AGE?

1 A LADY'S age is seldom known;
"Tis said, indeed, she's thirty-one;
But were I ask'd her years to fix,
I might suspect them thirty-six.

2 Her schooling days were o'er

Dr Syntax.

'Tis now good three years past, three years; I vow she's twenty.

T. H. Bayly.

3 What think ye of blooming, love-breathing seventeen?

The pretty lady bird,

Thy blossom of fourteen.

5 She is eighteen now, and is call'd handsome.

6 Even or odd, of all days in the year,

The Rivals.

Miss Mitford.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Come Lammas eve at night shall she be fourteen.

7 She is in her twentieth year,

Accomplished, lovely, and sincere.

Romeo and Juliet.

Chambers.

L