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To Chloe.

believ'd,

I SWORE I lov'd, and
you
Yet, trust me, we were both deceiv'd;
Though all I swore was true.

I lov'd one gen'rous, good, and kind,
A form created in my mind;

And thought that form was you.

I curse my fond enduring heart,
Which, scorn'd, presumes not to be free:
Condemn'd to feel a double smart;

To hate myself, and burn for thee.

On Shakspeare's Monument at Stratford upon
Avon.
SEWARD.

GREAT Homer's birth seven rival cities claim,
Too mighty such monopoly of fame.

On one who first abused, and then made Love Yet not to birth alone did Homer owe

to a Lady.

FOUL
with graceless verse
The noble dar'd asperse:
But when he saw her well bespatter'd,
Her reputation stain'd and tatter'd ;
He gazed, and loved the hideous elf,
She look'd so very like himself.

True sung the bard well-known to fame*,
Self-love and social are the same.

His wondrous worth; what Egypt could be

stow,

With all the schools of Greece and Asia join'd,
Enlarg'd th' immense expansion of his mind.
Nor yet unrival'd the Mæonian strain:
The British Eaglet and the Mantuan Swan
Tow'r equal heights. But happier Stratford,
thou,

With incontested laurels deck thy brow:
Thy bard was thine unschool'd, and from thee
brought

To a Lady who drew her Pins from her Bonnet More than all Egypt, Greece, or Asia, taught.

in a Thunder Storm.

CEASE, Eliza, thy locks to despoil,

Nor remove the bright steel from thy hair; For fruitless and fond is the toil,

Since Nature has made thee so fair.
While the rose on thy cheek shall remain,
And thine eye so bewitchingly shine,

Thy endeavour must still be in vain,
For attraction will always be thine.

SHE who in secret yields her heart,
Again may claim it from her lover;
But she who plays the trifler's part,

Can ne'er her squander'd fanie recover.
Then grant the boon for which I pray;
"Tis better lend than throw away.

We thought you without titles great,
And wealthy with a small estate;
While by your humble self alone
You seem'd unrated and unknown.
But now on fortune's swelling tide
High borne in all the pomp of pride,
Of grandeur vain, and fond of pelf,
'Tis plain, my lord, you knew yourself.

Toм thought a wild profusion great,
And therefore spent his whole estate;
Will thinks the wealthy are ador'd,
And gleans what misers blush to hoard:
Their passions merit fate the same,
They thirst and starve alike for fame.

To Clarissa.

WHY like a tyrant wilt thou reign,
When thou mayst rule the willing mind?

Can the poor pride of giving pain
Repay the joys that wait the kind?

• Mr. Pope.

Not Homer's self such matchless honors won;
The Greek has rivals, but thy Shakspeare none.

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On Captain Grenville. LORD LYTTELTON.
YE weeping muses, graces, virtues, tell,
If, since your all-accomplish'd Sidney fell,
You, or afflicted Britain, e'er deplor'd
A loss like that these plaintive lays record!
Such spotless honor; such ingenuous truth;
Such ripen'd wisdom in the bloom of youth!
So mild, so gentle, so compos'd a mind,
To such heroic warmth and courage join'd!
He too, like Sidney, nurs'd in Learning's arms,
For nobler war forsook her softer charms:
Like him, possess'd of every pleasing art,
The secret wish of every female heart;
Like him, cut off in youthful glory's pride,
He unrepining for his country died.

Designed for the Monument of Sir Isaac Newton.

MORE than his name were less-'twould seem to fear

He who increased Heaven's fame, could want it here.

Yes-when the sun he lighted up shall fade,
And all the world he found at first decay'd;
Then void and waste eternity shall lie,
And Time and Newton's name together die!

Upon a young Gentleman refusing to walk with the Author in the Park, because he was not dressed well. GARRICK.

FRIEND Col and I, both full of whim,

To shun each other oft agree;
For I'm not beau enough for him,
And he's too much a beau for me.

When screech-owls screek, their note por- Then let us from each other fly,

tends

To foolish mortals death of friends: But when Corvina strains her throat, Even screech-owls sicken at the note.

UPON some hasty errand Tom was sent, And met his parish-curate as he went; But, just like what he was, a sorry clown, It seems he pass'd him with a cover'd crown.

And arm in arm no more appear; That I may ne'er offend your eye, That you may ne'er offend my ear.

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Extempore, on hearing a certain impertinent | To the Author of the Farmer's Letters, which
Address in the Newspapers. By Garrick,
Thomson, &c.

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were written in Ireland in the year of the Rebellion, by Henry Brooke, Esq. 1745. GARRICK.

O THOU, whose artless, free-born genius
charms,

Whose rustic zeal each patriot bosom warms;
Pursue the glorious task, the pleasing toil,
Forsake the field, and till a nobler soil;
Extend the farmer's care to human kind,
Manure the heart, and cultivate the mind:
There plant religion, reason, freedom, truth,
And sow the seeds of virtue in our youth:
Let no rank weeds corrupt or brambles choke;
And shake the vermin from the British oak:
From northern blasts protect the vernal bloom,
And guard our pastures from the wolves of
Rome :

On Britain's liberty ingraft thy name,
And reap the harvest of immortal fame!

Upon a Lady's Embroidery. GARRICK,
ARACHNE once, as poets tell,

A goddess at her art defied;
But soon the daring mortal fell
The hapless victim of her pride.
O then beware Arachne's fate!

Be prudent, Chloe, and submit:
For you'll more surely feel her hate,
Who rival both her art and wit,

To Dr. Hill, upon his Petition of the Letter I Death and the Doctor. Occasioned by a Phy

to Mr. Garrick.

GARRICK.

Ir 'tis true, as you say, that I've injur'd a
letter,
[better;
I'll change my note soon, and I hope for the
May the right use of letters, as well as of men,
Hereafter be fixed by the tongue and the pen;
Most devoutly I wish they both had their due,
And that I may be never mistaken for U.

Colloquial Epigram. GARRICK.

Wilmot.

You should call at his house, or should send him a card;

Can Garrick alone be so cold?

Garrick.

Shall I, a poor player, and still poorer bard,
Shall folly with Camden make bold?
What joy can I give him, dear Wilmot, declare:
Promotion no honors can bring;
To him the Great Seals are but labor and care:
Wish joy to your country and king.

sician's lampooning a Friend of the Author. GARRICK.

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Soon after the promotion of Lord Camden to the Seals, Mr. Wilmot, his Lordship's pursebearer, called at Hampton; where learning that Mr. Garrick had not yet paid his congratulatory compliments, the conversation between the two gentlemen furnished Mr. Garrick with the subject of the Epigram; in which with admirable address our English Roscius has turned an imputed neglect into a very elegant panegyric on that truly patriotic nobleman.

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A bee within a damask rose

Had crept, the nectar'd dew to sip;
But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,
And fixes on Louisa's lip;
Where tasting all the bloom of spring,
Waked by the ripening breath of May,

Upon a certain Lord's giving some Thousand Th' ungrateful spoiler left his sting,

Pounds for a House.

GARRICK.

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TELL me the meaning, you who can, Of "finely for a gentleman!" Is genius, rarest gift of Heaven, To the hired artist only given? Or, like the Catholic salvation, Paled in for any class or station? Is it bound prentice to the trade, Which works, and as it works is paid? Is there no skill to build, invent, Unless inspir'd by five per cent.? And shalt thou, Taylor, paint in vain, Unless impell'd by hopes of gain? Be wise, my friend, and take thy fee, That Claude Lorraine may yield to thee.

Tom Fool to Mr. Hoskins, his Counsellor and Friend. GARRICK.

On your care must depend the success of my

suit,

The possession I mean of the house in dispute;
Consider, my friend, an attorney's my foe,
The worst of his tribe, and the best is so-so.
O let not his quiddits and quirks of the law,
O let not this harpy, your poor client claw!
In law, as in life, I know well 'tis a rule,
That a knave should be ever too hard for a fool:
To this rule one exception your client implores,
That the fool may for once beat the knave out
of doors.

From the Spanish. GARRICK.

FOR me my fair a wreath has wove,

Where rival flow'rs in union meet;

As oft she kiss'd the gift of love,

Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.

And with the honey flew away.

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speare writ.

Cold are those hands, which living were stretch'd forth,

At friendship's call, to succour modest worth. Here lies James Quin! Deign, reader, to be

taught,

Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In nature's happiest mould however cast,
To this complexion thou must come at last.

Epitaph on Laurence Sterne §. GARRICK.

SHALL pride a heap of sculptur'd marble raise, [praise, Some worthless, unmourn'd, titled fool to And shall we not by one poor grave-stone learn Where genius, wit, and humor, sleep with Sterne ?

This Epitaph has been ascribed to Dr. Johnson, but was really written by Mr. Garrick. See European Magazine, January, 1785.

+ He died October 26, 1764.

Mr. Quin died January, 1766.

Mr. Sterne was born at Clonmel in Ireland, November 24, 1713, and died in London, March 18, 1768.

his AMANDA; with a Copy of the SEASONS.

Epitaph on Mr.Beighton, who had been Vicar | Lines written by the celebrated THOMSON, to of Egham forty-five Years. GARRICK. NEAR half an age, with every good man's

praise,

Among his flock the shepherd pass'd his days:
The friend, the comfort of the sick and poor,
Want never knock'd unheeded at his door;
Oft when his duty call'd, disease and pain
Strove to confine him, but they strove in vain.
All moan his death, his virtues long they tried,
They knew not how they lov'd him, till he
died.

Peculiar blessings did his life attend,
He had no foe, and Camden was his friend.

Epitaph on Paul Whitehead, Esq.
HERE lies a man misfortune could not bend;
Prais'd as a poet, honor'd as a friend.
Tho' his youth kindled with the love of fame,
Within his bosom glow'd a brighter flame:
Whene'er his friends with sharp affliction bled,
And from the wounded deer the herd was fled,
Whitehead stood forth-the healing balm ap-
plied,

Nor quitted their distresses-till he died.

A Tribute by Mr. Garrick, to the Memory of
a Character he long knew and respected.
Epitaph on Mr. Havard, Comedian*.
"An honest man's the noblest work of God."

HAVARD, from sorrow rest beneath this stone;
An honest man-belov'd as soon as known;
Howe'er defective in the mimic art,
In real life he justly play'd his part!
The noblest character he acted well,

And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.

ACCEPT, dear Nymph! a tribute due
To sacred friendship, and to you:
But with it take, what breath'd the whole,
O! take to thine the Poet's soul!

If fancy here her pow'r displays,
Or if a heart exalts these lays,
You fairest in that fancy shine,
And all that heart is fondly thine!

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Inscription on a Grotto of Shells, at Crux- Epitaph on Mrs. Ellen Temple, late Wife of Easton, the Work of Nine young Ladiest.

РОРЕ.

HERE, shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;
Beauty which nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces art;
But fate dispos'd them in this humble sort,
And hid in deserts what would charm a court.

Verses occasioned by seeing a Grotto built by
Nine Sisters.
HERBERT.

So much this building entertains my sight,
Nought but the builders can give more delight:
In them the masterpiece of nature's shown,
In this I see art's masterpiece in stone.
O Nature, Nature, thou hast conquer'd Art;
She charms the sight alone, but you the heart.

Mr. John Temple, of Malton, Surgeon.

By Mr. GENTLEMAN.

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Who play'd,—as, reader, thou shouldst do-
her part

With inward peace and rectitude of heart;
Who Christian-like resign'd her final breath,
And, dying free from censure, smil'd at death.

He died 20th February, 1778. +In the county of Hants, the seat of Edward Lisle, Esq.
Miss Lisles, daughters of Edward Lisle, Esq. and sisters to Dr. Lisle.

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