RIDDLES.

RIDDLE XIII.

ART of a tree—if right transposed—
An insect then will be disclosed,
Which robs me of my precious sleep,
And makes me painful vigils keep.

‘

 

RIDDLE XIV.

I W AS born in a forest, and wear a green head,
And with green heads am compass'd full oft,
Some younger, some older,
Some sly, and some bolder,
Some harder, and some very soft.

As various specks on my face do appear,
Of different colours and shapes,
So intent on the matter,
Some grin, and some chatter,
Like 2 parcel of monkeys or apes.

By nature I’m harmless, but not so by art;
The art not my own, but my neighbouw’s ;
If you suffer by me,
Your own fault it must be,
And you'll e’en have your pains for your labours.