RIDDLES. 87

RIDDLE CLXXXI.

T° brass or tin I owe my birth,
And am a thing of little worth;
But yet no matron is without me,
And woe to her that dares to flout me.
If placed too near the kitchen fire,
I with the glowing heat expire;
But I drink deep, and’soon begin
At first to hum, and then to sing,
Tull, by degrees, my frenzy grows
So very strong, it overflows.
Now calm and sober I become;
And, till I drink again, am dumb;
But, twice a day (I blush for the confession)
T fall, at least, into the same transgression.

RIDDLE CLXXXII.

REAT numbers do our use despise,
But yet, at length, they find
Without our help, in many things,
They might as well be blind.