RIDDLES, 61

RIDDLE CXXVII.

IRECT or reverse, you may read me, ye fair,—
The one way a number, the other a snare.

 

RIDDLE CXXVIII.

WE are so like in form and feature,
That all must think us twins by nature;

When in high life by chance we move,

Not Hebe nor the Queen of Love

With us in smoothness can compare,

Nor boast complexion half so fair.

To concerts, balls, and routs we go;

Are seen at every brilliant show,

We mingle with the jocund throng,

Who lead the sprightly dance along.

But grief to joy must now succeed,

And we, attired in sable weed,

The solemn funeral attend

Of the lost father or the friend;

But as insensible as they

Who form’d the pomp in long array,

When all our services are o’er,

And we, grown old, can please no more,