"Thus _one_ ripe fruit may be a _pear_, and yet be _pared_ again, And still be _one_, which seemeth rare until we do explain. It therefore should be all your aim to speak with ample care: For who, however fond of game, would choose to swallow _hair_?
"A fat man's _gait_ may make us smile, who has no _gate_ to close: The farmer sitting on his _style_ no _stylish_ person knows: Perfumers men of _scents_ must be; some _Scilly_ men are bright; A _brown_ man oft deep _read_ we see, a _black_ a wicked _wight_.
"Most wealthy men good _manors_ have, however vulgar they; And actors still the harder slave, the oftener they _play_: So poets can't the _baize_ obtain, unless their tailors choose; While grooms and coachmen, not in vain, each evening seek the _Mews_.
"The _dyer_ who by _dying_ lives, a _dire_ life maintains; The glazier, it is known, receives--his profits from his _panes_: By gardeners _thyme_ is _tied_, 'tis true, when spring is in its prime; But _time_ or _tide_ won't wait for you, if you are _tied_ for _time_.
"Then now you see, my little dears, the way to make a pun; A trick which you, through coming years, should sedulously shun. The fault admits of no defence; for wheresoe'er 'tis found, You sacrifice the _sound_ for _sense_: the sense is never _sound_.
"So let your words and actions too, one single meaning prove, And, just in all you say or do, you'll gain esteem and love: In mirth and play no harm you'll know, when duty's task is done; But parents ne'er should let ye go un_pun_ish'd for a _pun_!"
The season of festivities is arrived--the balmy breath of Spring has called the dormant vegetation into life--the flowers are bursting from their buds, the blossoms hang on every tree--the birds sing melodiously, and the sun shines brightly over the fresh foliage; in consequence of the completion of which arrangements, everybody is coming to London, in order to take the dust in the Parks, or pace the burning pavement in the streets. Such is the order of things, and shady groves and cooling grots are abandoned for drawing rooms at ninety-six, and half-a-score sickly orange-trees tubbed on the top of a staircase.
Thursday last was a fruitful day in the annals of our town. Lord Dudley had a grand dinner--so had the Bishop of London--so had Lady Sykes--so had Mrs. Bethel, and so had half a score of the leaders of Ton. The Society for the Relief of Foreigners in Distress (to which his Royal Highness Don Miguel borrowed fifty pounds of Lord Dudley to subscribe) had their anniversary feast at the City of London Tavern; and the Chimney Sweepers of the metropolis held theirs--contrast is every thing--at the White Conduit House!