--_English Journal of Education_, _Jan., 1856_
They tell me, Cotilus, that you're a beau: What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know. "A beau is one who, with the nicest care, In parted locks divides his curling hair; One who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet, Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat; Whose naked arms are smoothed with pumice-stone, And tossed about with graces all his own: A beau is one who takes his constant seat From morn till evening, where the ladies meet; And ever, on some sofa hovering near, Whispers some nothing in some fair one's ear; Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day; Still reads and scribbles, reads, and sends away; A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly pressed By the coarse garment of a neighbor guest; Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found At each good table in successive round: A beau is one--none better knows than he A race-horse, and his noble pedigree"-- Indeed? Why Cotilus, if this be so, What teasing trifling thing is called a beau!
The things that make a life to please, (Sweetest Martial), they are these: Estate inherited, not got: A thankful field, hearth always hot: City seldom, law-suits never: Equal friends, agreeing forever: Health of body, peace of mind: Sleeps that till the morning bind: Wise simplicity, plain fare: Not drunken nights, yet loos'd from care: A sober, not a sullen spouse: Clean strength, not such as his that plows; Wish only what thou art, to be; Death neither wish, nor fear to see.
Thou monarch of eight parts of speech, Who sweep'st with birch a youngster's breech, Oh! now awhile withhold your hand! So may the trembling crop-hair'd band Around your desk attentive hear, And pay you love instead of fear; So may yours ever be as full, As writing or as dancing school. The scorching dog-day is begun; The harvest roasting in the sun; Each Bridewell keeper, though requir'd To use the lash, is too much tir'd. Let ferula and rod together Lie dormant, till the frosty weather. Boys do improve enough in reason, Who miss a fever in this season.
Underneath this greedy stone, Lies little sweet Erotion;[3] Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold, Nipp'd away at six years old. Thou, whoever thou mayst be, That hast this small field after me, Let the yearly rites be paid To her little slender shade; So shall no disease or jar Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar; But this tomb be here alone The only melancholy stone.