No more fweet patience, feigning oft relief, Lights thy fick eye, to cheat a parent's grief: With tender art to fave her anxious groan, No more thy bofom preffes down its own: Now well-earn'd peace is thine, and blifs fincere: Ours be the lenient, not unpleafing tear!

O! born to bloom, then fink beneath the ftorm,

To fhew us Virtue in her fairest form;
To fhew us artlefs Reafon's moral reign;
What boastful Science arrogates in vain;
Th' obedient paffions, knowing each their part,
Calm light the head, and Harmony the heart!

Yes, we must follow foon, will glad obey, When a few funs have roll'd their cares away; Tir'd with vain life, will close the willing eye; 'Tis the great birthright of mankind to die.

Bleft be the bark that wafts us to the fhore Where death-divided friends fhall part no more! To join thee there, here with thy duft repofe, Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.

On one who firft abused, and then made Love tɔ a Lady. with graceicfs verfe, dar'd alperte:

FOUL

The noble
But when he faw her well befpatter'd,
Her reputation flain'd and tatter'd;
He gaz'd, and lov'd the hideous elf,
She look'd fo very like himself.
True fung the bard well known to fame *,
Self-love and focial are the fame.

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

Can ne'er her fquander'd fame 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 fimall citate;
While by your humble felf alone
You feem'd unrated and unknown.
But now on fortune's fwelling tide
High-borne in all the pomp of pride,
Of grandeur vain, and fond of pelf,
'Tis plain, my lord, you knew yourself.

Which fcorn'd, prefumes not to be free, Condemn'd to feel a double fmart,

promifed the next Prefentation.

I'M glad to fee you well.-O faithlefs breath!
What, glad to fee me well, and with
No more, replies the youth, Sir, this mifgiving:
I wish not for your death, but for your living.

EVER bufy, ne'er employ'd,
Ever loving, ne'er enjoy'd,
Ever doom'd to feck and mifs,
And
pay unblefs'd the price of plifs.

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

GREAT Homer's birth seven rival cities claim,
Too mighty fuch monopoly of fame.
Yet not to birth alone did Homer owe
His wondrous worth; what Egypt could bestow,
With all the schools of Greece and Afia join'd,
Enlarg'd th' immenfe expanfion of his mind.
Nor yet unrival'd the Mæonian strain,
The British Eagle and the Mantuan Swan
Tow'r equal heights. But happier Stratford, thou,
With incontefted laurels deck thy brow:

Thy bard was thine unfchool'd, and from thee brought

More than all Egypt, Greece, or Afia taught. Not Homer's felf fuch matchlefs honours won; The Greek has rivals, but thy Shakspeare none.

A Sonnet. Imitated from the Spanish of Lopez de Vega. Menagiana, tom. iv. p. 176. EDWARDS.

CAP

APRICIOUS Wray a fonnet needs must have; I ne'er was fo put to 't before-a fonnet! Why, fourteen verfes must be spent upon it: 'Tis good howe'er t' have conquer'd the first stave.

Yet I fhall ne'er find rhymes enough by half,

Said I, and found myself i'the midfto' the fecord. If twice four verfes were but fairly reckon'd, I fhould turn back on th' hardest part and laugh.

Thus far with good fuccefs I think I've fcribbled,

On Skep.

ten.

wears,

Still do I with him on my couch to lie; Come, balmy sleep, for sweetly it appears, Thus without life to live, thus without de to die.

On a bad Singer. WHEN fcreech-ow is foreck, their note

e portends To foolith mortais death of friends: But when Corvina Arains her throat, E'en fcreech-owls ficken at the note.

PON fome hafty errand Tom was fent, And met his parith curate as he went; But, juft like what he was, a forry clown, It feems he pafs'd him with a cover'd crown, The gownman ftopp'd, and, turning, fternly fac I doubt, my lad, you're far worse taught than f Why aye! fays Tom, ftill jegging on, that's tric Thank God! he feeds me; but I in taught by you

Garrick.

Shall I, a poor player, and ftill poorer bard,
Shall folly with Camden make bold?
What joy can I give him, dear Wilmot, declare ?
Promotion no honours can bring;

To him the Great Seals are but labour and care,
With joy to your country and king.

To the Author of the Farmer's Letters, which were written in Ireland in the Year of the Rebellion, by Henry Brooke, Efq. 1745. GARRICK. THOU, whofe artlefs, free-born genius charms,

O
Whose ruftic zeal each patriot bofom warms;
Purfue the glorious task, the pleafing toil,
Forfake the fields, and till a nobler foil;
Extend the farmer's care to human kind,
Manure the heart, and cultivate the mind:
There plant religion, reason, freedom, truth,
And fow the feeds of virtue in our youth:
Let no rank weeds corrupt, or brambles choak,
And shake the vermin from the British oak:
From northern blafts 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!

AS

S Doctor .

mufing fat,

Death faw, and came without delay: Enters the room, begius the chat,

With "Doctor, why fo thoughtful, pray?" The Doctor ftarted from his place,

But foon they more familiar grew: And then he told his pitcous cafe, How trade was low, and friends were few. "Away with fear," the phantom faid,

As foon as he had heard his tale: "Take my advice, and mend your trade: "We both are lofers if you fail. "Go write, your wit in fatire fhow, No matter, whether fart or true; "Call names, the greateft foe

To dulnefs, folly, pride, and you. "Then copies fpread, there lies the trick,

Among your friends be fure you tend 'em; "For all who read will foon grow fick,

"And when you're call'd upon, attend 'em.

Upon feeing Mr. Taylor's Pictures of Bath, m bearing a Connoiffeur declare that "they were finely painted for a Gentleman." GARRICK TELL me the meaning, you who can,

Of" finely for a gentleman!"
Is genius, rareft gift of Heaven,
To the hir'd artist only given
Or, like the Catholic falvation,
Pal'd in for any clafs or station
Is it bound 'prentice to the trade,
Which works, and as it works is paid!
Is there no fill to build, invent,
Unless infpir'd by free per cent?
And fhalt thou, Taylor, paint in vain,
Unless impell'd by hopes of gain?
Be wife, my friend, and take thy fee,
That Claude Loraine may yield to thee.

Tom Fool to Mr. Hofkins, bis Counsellor and Frie-L GARRICK.

ON your care muft depend the fuccefs of my fut,

The poffeffion I mean of the houfe in d.ipute, Confider, my friend, an attorney's my foe, The worst of his tribe, and the beft is fo-fo 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 impleres That the fool may for once beat the knave out of doors.