HIM

What madness this-for fear of death to die!

Book v. Ep. 78.

VARUS did lately me to fupper call;

The furniture was large, the feast but small, The tables fpread with plate, not meat; they put Much to accoft the eye, nought for the gut: We came to feaft our bellies, not our eyes; Pray take away your gold; give us fome pies.

Book i. Ep. 16.

THOU, whom (if faith or honour recommends
A friend) I rank amongst my dearest friends,
Remember you are now almost threefcore;
Few days of life remain, if any more:
Defer not what no future time infures,
And only what is past, efteem that yours.
Succeffive cares and troubles for you stay;
Pleafre not fo; it nimbly flects away;
Then feize it faft embrace it ere it flies;
In the embrace it vanishes and dies.
"I'll live to-morrow," will a wife man say?
To-morrow is too late—then live to-day.

Book i. Ep. 16.

He only owes, who fomething has to pay.
Book ii. Ep. 58.

YOU'RE fine, and ridicule my thread-bare gown;
Thread-bare indeed it is; but 'tis my own.

A

The Mifluke.

TAYLOR.
CANNON-BALL, one bloody day,
Took a poor failor's leg away;
And, as on comrade's back he made off,
A fecond fairly took his head off.
The fellow, on this odd emergence,
Carries him pick-back to the furgeons.
Z-ds! cries the doctor, are you drunk,
To bring me here a headless trunk?
A lying dog! crics Jack-he faid
His leg was off, and not his head.

An Epitaph to the Memory of Lucy Lyttelton. MADE to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes;

Tho' meek, magnanimous; tho' witty, wife;
Polite, as all her life in courts had been;
Yet good, as the the world had never feen;
The noble fire of an exalted mind

Her fpeech was the melodious voice of Love;
With gentle female tenderness combin'd.
Her fong the warbling of the vernal grote;
Her eloquence was fweeter than her fong,

the fword,

Her form each beauty of her mind exprefs d Her mind was virtue by the graces drefs'd.

THOMSON.

Epitaph on Mifs Stanley. HERE, Stanley! reft, efcap'd this mortalftrife, Above the joys, beyond the woes of life. Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauty ftain, And sternly try thee with a year of pain: 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-carn'd peace is thine, and blifs fincere : Ours be the lenient, not unpleafing tear!

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

ro fhew us Virtue in her fairest form; To fhew us artless Reafon's moral reign; What boaftful Science arrogates in vain;

Th' obe

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 clofe 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 repote, Is all the hope thy haplefs mother knows.

SINCE first you knew my am'rous fmart,

Each day augments your proud difdain; 'Twas then enough to break my heart,

And now, thank Heaven! to break my chain. Ceafe, thou fcorner, ceafe to fhun me! Now let love and hatred cease! Half that rigour had undone me,, All that rigour gives me peace.

My heart ftill hovering round about you,

I thought I could not live without you: Now we have liv'd three months afunder, How I liv'd with you is the wonder.

SHE

who in fecret yields her heart, Again may clain 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 fmall eftate; While by your humble self 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 foud of pelf, 'Tis plain, my lord, you knew yourself.

TOM thought a wild profusion great,

And therefore fpent his whole eftate : Will thinks the wealthy are ador'd, And gleans what mifers blush to hoard, Their paffion, merit, fate the fame, They thirit and starve alike for fame.

chaims,

Whofe ruftic zeal each patriot bofom warms;
Purfue the glorious talk, the pleafing toil,
Forlake 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, reafon, freedom, truth,
And fow the feeds of virtue in our youth:
Let no rank weeds corrupt, or brambles choak;
And thake the vermin from the British oak:
From northern blasts protect the vernal bloom,
And guard our paftures from the wolves of Rome
On Britain's liberty ingraft thy name,
And reap the harveft of immortal fame!

:

Death and the Doctor. O cafioned by a Physician's lampooning a Friend of the Author. GARRICK.

A

S Doctor

mufing fat,

Death faw, and came without delay; Enters the room, begins 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 piteous cafe,

How trade was low, and friends were few. "Away with fear," the phantom said, As foon as he had heard his tale: Take my advice, and mend your trade: "We both are loters if you fail. Go write, your wit in fatire show, "No matter, whether smart or true; Call names, the greatest foe "To dulnefs, folly, pride, and you. "Then copies fpread, there lies the trick, "Among your friends be fure you fend 'em ; For all who read will toon grow fick,

And, when you 're call'd upon, attend 'cm.

Upon feeing Mr. Taylor's Pictures of Bath, and
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?

Pal'd in for any class or station?
Or, like the Catholic falvation,

Is it bound 'prentice to the trade,
Which works, and as it works is paid?
Is there no skill to build, invent,
Unless infpir'd by five 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 Friend. GARRICK.

ON your care must depend the fuccefs of my fuit,

Confider, my friend, an attorney 's my foe,
The poffeffion I mean of the house in difpute.
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 implores,
That the fool may for once beat the knave out of
doors.