To Chloe.

I curse my fond enduring heart,

Which, scorn'd, presumes not to be free: I swore I lov’d, and you believ'd, Yet, trust me, we were both deceiv'd;

Condemn'd to feel a double smart;
Though all I swore was true.

To hate myself, and burn for thee.
I lov'd one gen'rous, good, and kind,
A form created in my mind;

On Shakspeure's Monument at Stratford upon And thought that form was you.

Avon.

SEWARD. Great Homer's birth seven sival 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.

His wondrous worth : what Egypt could beFour -- with graceless verse

stow, The noble dar'd asperse:

With all the schools of Greece and Asia joind, But when he saw her well bespatter'd,

Enlarg'd th' immense expansion of his mind. Her reputation stain'd and tatter'd ;

Nor yet unrival'd the Mæonian strain : He gazed, and loved the hideous elf,

The British Eaglet and the Mantuan Swan She look'd so very like himself.

Tow'r equal heights. But happier Stratford, True sung the bard well-known to fame,

thou, Self-love and social are the same.

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.

Not Homer's self such matchless honors won;

The Greek has rivals, but thy Shakspeare none. Cease, Eliza, thy locks to despoil,

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

| A Sonnet. Imitated from the Spanish of Lopez Since Nature has made thee so fair.

de Vega: Menagiana, tom. iv. p. 176. While the rose on thy cheek shall remain,

EDWARDS. And thine eye so bewitchingly shine,

CAPRICIOUS Wray a sonnet needs must Thy endeavour must still be in vain,

have; For attraction will always be thine.

I ne'er was so put to't before-a sonnet!

Why, fourteen verses must be spent upon it:

'Tis good howe'er t' have conquer d the first She who in secret yields her heart,

stave. Again may claim it from her lover; Yet I shall ne'er find rhymes enough by half, But she who plays the trifler's part,

Said I; and found myself i'the midst o' the Can ne'er her squander'd fanie recover.

second : Then grant the boon for which I pray;

If twice four verses were but fairly reckond, 'Tis better lend than throw away.

I should turn back on the hardest part and

laugh. We thought you without titles great,

Thus far with good success I think I've scribAnd wealthy with a small estate;

bled, While by your humble self alone

And of the twice seven lines have clean got You seem'd unrated and unknown.

o'er ten. But now on fortune's swelling tide

Courage! another'll finish the first triplet. High borne in all the pomp of pride,

Thanks to thee, inuse, my work begins to Of grandeur vain, and fond of pell,

shorten. 'Tis plain, my lord, you knew yourself. There's thirteen linesgot thro', driblet by driblet:

"Tis done! count how you will, I warrint

there's fourteen.
Tom thought a wild profusion great,
And therefore spent his whole estate ;
Will thinks the wealthy are ador'd,

On pollard oak, hollow at heart,
And gleans what misers blush to hoard :

Tremendous lightning darted : Their passions merit fate the same,

Tremble at God's avenging dart, They thirst and starve alike for fame.

O all ye hollow-hearted!

The gownman stopp’d, and, turning, sternly

said As Quin and Foote

I doubt, my lad, you're far worse taught than One day walk'd out

fed ! To view the country round,

Why, ay! says Tom, still jogging on, that's In merry mood

true :
They chatting stood

Thank God I he feeds me; but I'm taught by
Hard by the village-pound.
Foote from his poke
A shilling took,
And said, I'll bet a penny

Epitaph on a certain Miser.
In a short space,
Within this place,

Here lies one who for med'cines would not

give
I'll make this piece a guinea.

A little gold, and so his life he lost:
Upon the ground,

I fancy now he'd wish again to live,
Within the pound,

Could he but guess how much his funeral
The shilling soon was thrown:
Behold, says Foote,
The thing's made out,

For there is one pound one. On Captain Grenville. LORD Lyttelton.
I wonder not,

Ye weeping muses, graces, virtues, tell,
Says Quin, that thought

If, since your all-accomplish'd Sidney fell,
Should in your head be found, You, or afflicted Britain, e'er deplor'd
Since that's the way

A loss like that these plaintive lays record !
Your debts you pay-

Such spotless honor; such ingenuous truth;
One shilling in the pound.

Such ripen'd wisdom in the bloom of yonth!
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, On a Statue of Apollo crowning Merit. For nobler war forsook her softer charms :

Like him, possess’d of every pleasing art, Merit, if thou’rt blest with riches,

The secret wish of every female heart; For God's sake buy a pair of breeches,

Like him, cut off in youthful glory's pride, And give them to thy naked brother,

He unrepining for his country died. For one good turn deserves another.

cost.

(RICK.

Designed for the Monument of Sir Isaac O LET me die in peace! Eumenes cried

Newton. To a hard creditor ai his bed-side.

More than his name were less-'twould How! die! roar'd Gripus; thus your debts evade!

seem to fear No, no, Sir, you shan't die till I am paid.

He who increased Heaven's fame, could want

it here.

Yes when the sun he lighted up shall fade, On Sleep.

And all the world he found at first decay'd;

Then void and waste eternity shall lie, ALTHOUGH soft sleep death's sad resemblance wears,

| And Time and Newton's name together die ! Sull do I wish him on my couch to lie. Come, balmy sleep; for sweetly it appears, | Upon a young Gentleman refusing to walk with Thus without life to live, thus without death

the Author in the Park, because he was not to die.

dressed well.
Friend Col and I, both full of whim,

To shun each other oft agree;
On a bad Singer.

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

And arm in arm no more appear; To foolish mortals death of friends :

That I may ne'er offend your eye, . But when Corvina strains her throat,

That you may ne'er offend my ear. Eren screech-owls sicken at the note.

On Mr. Quin. GARRICK. UPOx some hasty errand Tom was sent, Says Epicure Quin, Should the devil in hell And met his parish-curate as he went;

In fishing for men take delight, But, just like what he was, a sorry clown, His hook bait with ven'son, I love it so well, It seems he pass'd him with a cover'd crown. | Indeed I am sure I should bite.

crimes,

Extempore, on hearing a certain impertinent | To the Author of the Farmer's Letters, which

Address in the Newspapers. By Garrick, were written in Ireland in the year of the Thomson, Sc.

Rebellion, by Henry Brooke, Esq. 1745. Thou essence of dock, of valerian, and sage,

GARRICK. At once the disgrace and the pest of this age,

O thou, whose artless, free-born genius The worst that we wish thee, for all thy bad

charms,

| Whose rustic zeal each patriot bosom warms; Is to take thy own physic, and read thy own

Pursue the glorious task, the pleasing toil, rhymes.

Forsake the field, and till a nobler soil;

Extend the farmer's care to human kind,
Arswer to the Junto.

Manure the heart, and cultivate the mind : Their wish must be in form revers'd,

There plant religion, reason, freedom, truth, To suit the doctor's crimes,

And sow the seeds of virtue in our youth : For, if he takes his physic first,

| Let no rank weeds corrupt or brambles choke; He'll never read his rhymes.

And shake the vermin from the British oak:
From northern blasts protect the vernal bloom,

And guard our pastures from the wolves of
Dr. Hill's Reply to the Junto's Epigram. 1 Rome :
Ve desperate junto, ye great or ye small,

| On Britain's liberty ingraft thy name, Vho combat dukes, doctors, the deuce, and | And reap the harvest of immortal fame!

'em all! Whether gentlemen, scribblers, or poets in jail,

Upon a Lady's Embroidery. GARRICK, Your impertinent curses shall never prevail : I'll take neither sage, dock, nor balsami of honey; | ARACHNE once, as poets tell, Do you take the physic, and I'll take the money. 1. A goddess at her art defied;

But soon the daring mortal fell

The hapless victim of her pride,
Written soon afler Dr. Hill's Farce, called the
Rout, was acted. GARRICK.

| O then beware Arachue's fate !

Be prudent, Chloe, and submit:
For physic and farces

For you'll more surely feel her hate,
His equal there scarce is;

Who rival both her art and wit,
His farces are physic,

His physic a farce is.
To Dr. Hill, upon his Petition of the Letter I

J Death and the Doctor. Occasioned by a Phy

sician's lampooning a Friend of the Author. to Mr. Garrick. GARRICK.

GARRICK. IF 'tis true, as you say, that I've injur'd a letter,

[better ; | As Doctor ---- musing sat, I'll change my note soon, and I hope for the Death saw, and came without delay; May the right use of letters, as well as of men, | Enters the room, begins the chat, Hereafter be fixed by the tongue and the pen ; With “Doctor, why so thoughtful, pray?" Most devoutly I wish they both had their due,

| The Doctor started from his place, And that I may be never mistaken for U.

But soon they more familiar grew;

And then he told his piteous case,
Colloquial Epigram.* GARRICK. How trade was low, and friends were few.
Wilmot.

« Away with fear," the phantom said, You should call at his house, or should send

| As soon as he had heard his tale : him a card ;

“ Take my advice, and mend your trade : Can Garrick alone be so cold?

We both are losers if you fail.

“Go write, your wit in satire show, Garrick.

No matter whether smart or true;

| Call Shall I, a poor player, and still poorer bard,

names, the greatest foe Shall folly with Camden make bold?

1 To dullness, folly, pride, and you. What joy can I give him, dear Wilmot, declare: “ Then copies spread, there lies the trick, Promotion no honors can bring;

| Among your friends be sure you send 'em; To him the Great Seals are but labor and care : For all who read will soon grow sick:

Wish joy to your country and king. 1 And, when you're callid upon, attend'em.

• 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.

« Thus trade increasing by degrees,

A bee within a damask rose Doctor, we both shall have our ends;

Had crept, the nectar'd dew to sip; For you are sure to have your fees,

But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,
And I am sure to have your friends."

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.

And with the honey flew away. So many thousands for a house, Por you, of all the world, Lord Mouse ! An Epitaph upon the celebrated Claudius PhiA little house would best accord

lips*, Musician, who died very poor. With you, my very little lord !

GARRICK. And then exactly match'd would be Your house and hospitality.

Philips, whose touch harmonious could

remove

The pangs of guilty pow'r and hapless love, Upon seeing Mr. Taylor's Pictures of Bath,

Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more, and hearing a Connoisseur declare that “they

Here find that calm thou gav'st so oft before ;

Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine, were finely painted for a Gentleman."

GARRICK.

Till angels wake thee with a note like thine. Tell me the meaning, you who can, Of “finely for a gentleman!"

Epitaph on William Hogartht, in Chiswick Is genius, rarest gift of Heaven,

Church-Yard.

GARRICK To the hired artist only given? Or, like the Catholic salvation,

Farewel, great painter of mankind, Paled in for any class or station ?

Who reach'd the noblest point of art; Is it bound prentice to the trade,

Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind, Which works, and as it works is paid ?

And ihrough the eye correct the heart! Is there no skill to build, invent,

If genius fire thee, reader, stay; Unless inspir’d by five per cent.

If nature touch thee, drop a tear: And shalt thou, Taylor, paint in vain,

If neither move thee, turn away,
Unless impell’d by hopes of gain?

For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here.
Be wise, my friend, and take thy fee,
That Claude Lorraine may yield to thee.

Epitaph on James Quin f, in Bath Cathedral.

GARRICK. Tom Fool to Mr. Hoskins, his Counsellor and That tongue, which set the table in a roar, Friend.

GARRICK. And charm'd the public ear, is heard no more:

Clos'd are those eyes, the harbingers of wit, On your care must depend the success of my | Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shaksuit,

speare writ. The possession I mean of the house in dispute; | Cold are those hands, which living were Consider, my friend, an attorney's my foe,

stretch'd forth, The worst of his tribe, and the best is so-so.

At friendship's call, to succour modest worth. O let not his quiddits and quirks of the law, Here lies James Quin! Deign, reader, to be O let not this harpy, your poor client claw!

taught,In law, as in life, I know well 'tis a rule,

Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought, That a knave should be ever too hard for a fool: | In nature's happiest mould however cast. To this rule one exception your client implores, To this complexion thou must come at last. That the fool may for once beat the knave out of doors.

Epitaph on Laurence Sterne §. Garrick. From the Spanish. GARRICK.

Shall pride a heap of sculptur'd marble raise,

[praise, For me my fair a wreath has wove,

Some worthless, unmourn'd, titled fool to Where rival flow'rs in union meet;

And shall we not by one poor grave-stone learn As oft she kiss'd the gift of love,

Where genius, wit, and humor, sleep with Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.

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.

1 Mr. Quin died January, 1766. Mr. Sterne was born at Clonmel in Ireland, November 24, 1713, and died in London, March 18, 1768.

Epitaph on Mr.Beighton, who had been Vicar | Lines written by the celebrated THOMSON, to

of Egham forty-five Years. GARRICK. his AMANDA; with a Copy of the SEASONS. Near half an age, with every good man's Accept, dear Nymph! a tribute due praise,

To sacred friendship, and to you: Among his flock the shepherd pass'd his days : But with it take, what breath'd the whole, The friend, the comfort of the sick and poor, lo! take to thine the Poet's soul ! Want never knock'd unheeded at his door; 1 If fancy here her pow'r displays, Oft when his duty call'd, disease and pain Or if a heart exalts ihese lays, Strove to confine him, but they strove in vain. You fairest in that fancy shine, All moạn his death, his virtues long they tried, And all that heart is fondly thine! 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.

An Epigram.

A member of the modern great Epitaph on Paul Whitehead, Esq. Pass'd Sawney with his budget; Here lies a man misfortune could not bend; 1

„id not hend. The peer was in a car of state, Prais'd as a poet, honor'd as a friend.

The tinker forced to trudge it.
Tho' bis youth kindled with the love of fame, But Sawney shall receive the praise
Within his bosom glow'd a brighter fame: His lordship would parade for :
Whene'er his friends with sharp affliction bled, One's debtor for his dapple greys,
And from the wounded deer the herd was fled, And th' other's shoes are paid for.
Whitehead stood forth-the healing balm ap-

plied,
Nor quitted their distresses till he died.

The Lawyer and his Client. A Tribute by Mr.Garrick, to the Memory of Two lawyers, when a knotty cause was

o'er, a Character he long knew and respected.

Shook hands, and were as good friends as Epitaph on Mr. Havard, Comedian

before, “ An honest man's the noblest work of God.” “ Zounds !” says the losing client, “ how HAVARD, from sorrow rest beneath this stone;

come yaw An honest man-belor'd as soon as known;

| To be such friends, who were such foes just Howe'er defective in the mimic art,

naw?" In real life he justly play'd his part !

| Thou fool, says one, we lawyers, tho' so keen, The noblest character he acted well,

Like shears, ne'er cut ourselves, but what's And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.

between.

Inscription on a Grotlo of Shells, at Crux-
Easton t, the Work of Nine young Ladies I. |

| Epitaph on Mrs. Ellen Temple, late Wife of Pope.

1 Mr. John Temple, of Malton, Surgeon. Here, shunning idleness at once and praise,

By Mr. GENTLEMAN.
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,

1 Here, in just hope above the stars to rise, Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame; The mortal part of Ellen Temple lies. Beauty which nature only can inpart,

In whom those beauties of a spotless mind, And such a polish as disgraces art;

| Faith and good works, were happily combin'd; But fate dispos'd them in this humble sort,

A patient, careful, constant, loving wife, And hid in deserts what would charm a court. The foe of scandal and domestic strife :

The tender mother, undissembling friend,

Who grac'd those virtues with a pious end; Verses occasioned by secing a Grotto built by Who, still preserving an unblemish'd name, Nine Sisters.

Herbert.

Ne'er meanly strove to taint a neighbour's So much this building entertains my sight,

fame : Nought but the builders can give more delight : Who play'd, -as, reader, thou shouldst doIn them the masterpiece of nature's shown,

her part In this I see art's masterpiece in stone. | With inward peace and rectitude of heart; O Nature, Nature, thou hast conquer'd Art; | Who Christian-like resign'd her final breath, She charms the sight alone, but you the heart. I And, dying free from censure, smild 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.