At fairs he never fail'd to find
The joy congenial to his mind.

This dear diversion would you know?
What was it? 'twas a Puppet-show!
Transported with the mimic art,
The wit of Punch enthrall'd his heart.
He went, each evening, just at six,
When Punch exhibited his tricks ;
And, not contented every night
To view this object of delight,

He gravely made the matter known,

He must and would have Punch his own;
For if, exclaims the noble Lord,

Such joys these transient views afford;
If I receive such keen delight
From a short visit every night,

'Tis fair to calculate what pleasure
Will spring from owning such a treasure.
I need not for amusements roam,
I shall have always Punch at home.
He rav'd, with this new fancy bit,
Of Punch's sense and Punch's wit.
Not more Narcissus long'd t' embrace
The watery mirror's shadowy face;
Not more Pygmalion long'd to claim
Th' unconscious object of his flame;
Than long'd th' enamour'd legislator
To purchase this delightful creature.
Each night he regularly sought him,
Nor did he rest till he had bought him.

Soon he accomplishes the measure,
And pays profusely for his treasure:

He bids them pack the precious thing,
So careful not to break a spring;

So anxious not to bruise a feature,

His own new coach must fetch the creature.
He safely brought the idol home,

And lodg'd beneath his splendid dome;
All obstacles at length surmounted,
My Lord on perfect pleasure counted.

If you have feelings, guess you may,
How glad he pass'd the live-long day.
His eating room he makes the station,
Of his new favourite's habitation.
"Convivial Punch!" he cried, "to-day
"Thy genius shall have full display!
"How shall I laugh to hear thy wit
"At supper nightly as I sit!
"Oh how delightful, as I dine,

"To hear some sallies, Punch, of thine!"

Next day, at table, as he sat,

Impatient to begin the chat,

Punch was produc'd; but Punch, I trow,

Divested of his puppet-show,

Was nothing, was a thing of wires,
Whose sameness disappoints and tires.

Depriv'd of all extrinsic aid,

The empty idol was betray'd.

No artful hand to pull the springs,

And Punch no longer squeaks or sings.
Ah me! what horror seiz'd my Lord,
'Twas paint, 'twas show, 'twas pasted-board!
He marvell'd why the pleasant thing
Which could such crowds together bring,

Which charm'd him when the show was full, At home should be so very dull.

He ne'er suspected 'twas the scenery,

He never dreamt 'twas the machinery :
The lights, the noise, the tricks, the distance,
Gave the dumb idol this assistance.
Preposterous Peer! far better go
To thy congenial puppet-show,
Than buy, divested of its glare,

The empty thing which charm'd thee there.
Be still content abroad to roam,
For Punch exhibits not at home.
The moral of the tale I sing,
To modern matches home I bring.
Ye youths, in quest of wives who go
To every crowded puppet-show;
If, from these scenes, you choose for life
A dancing, singing, dressing, wife;
O marvel not, at home to find
An empty figure void of mind:
Stript of her scenery and garnish,
A thing of paint, and paste, and varnish.
Ye candidates for earth's best prize,
Domestic life's sweet charities!

If long you've stray'd from reason's way,
Enslav'd by fashion's wizard sway;
If by her witcheries still betray'd
You wed some vain fantastic maid;
Snatch'd, not selected, as you go,
The heroine of the puppet-show;
In every outward grace refin'd,
And destitute of nought but mind;

If, skill'd in every polish'd art,
She want simplicity of heart;
On her for bliss if you depend,
Without the means you seek the end;
You seek, o'erturning nature's laws,
A consequence without a cause;
A downward pyramid you place,

The point inverted for the base.
Blame your own work, not fate; nor rail
If bliss so ill secur'd should fail.

'Tis after fancied good to roam,

'Tis bringing Punch to live at home.

And you, bright nymphs, who bless our eyes
With all that art, that taste supplies;
Learn that accomplishments, at best,
Are but the garnish in life's feast;

And though your transient guests may praise
Your showy board on gala days;
Yet, while you treat each frippery sinner
With mere desserts, and call 'em dinner,
Your Lord, who lives at home, still feels
The want of more substantial meals;
Of sense and worth, which every hour
Enlarge affection's growing power;
Of worth, not emulous of praise,
Of sense, not kept for gala days.

O! in the highest, happiest lot,

By woman be it ne'er forgot,

That human life's no Isthmian game

Where sports and shows must purchase fame.

Though at the puppet-show he shone,

Punch was poor company alone.

Life is no round of jocund hours,
Of garlands gay, and festive bowers;
Even to the young, to whom I sing,
Its serious business life will bring.
Though bright the suns which now appear
To gild your cloudless atmosphere,
Oft, unawares, some direful storm
Serenest skies may soon deform;
In dim affliction's dreary hour
The flash of mirth must lose its power;
While faith a constant light supplies,
And virtue cheers the darkest skies.
To bless the matrimonial hours
Must three joint leaders club their powers:
GOOD NATURE, PIETY, and SENSE,
Must their confederate aids dispense.
As the soft powers of oil assuage
Of ocean's waves the furious rage;
Lull to repose the boiling tide,
And the rough billows bid subside,
Till every angry motion sleep,
And softest tremblings hush the deep;
Good nature! thus thy charms control
The tumults of the troubled soul;
By labour worn, by care opprest,
On thee the wearied head shall rest;
From business and distraction free,
Delighted, shall return to thee;
To thee the aching heart shall cling,
And find that peace it does not bring.
And while the light and empty fair,
Form'd for the ball-room's dazzling glare,