Epitaph on James Quint, in Bath Cathedral.
GARRICK.

THAT tongue, which fet the table on a roar,
And charm'd the public ear, is heard no more!
Clos'd are thofe eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakspeare
writ,
[forth,
Cold are thofe hands, which living were ftretch'd
At friendship's call, to fuccour modeft worth.
Here lies James Quin! Deign, reader, to be taught
(Whate'er thy ftrength of body, force of thought,
In nature's happiest mould however cast)
To this complexion thou must come at last.

Epitaph on Mr. Beighton, who had been Vicar of

Egham forty-five Years. GARRICK. NEAR half an age, with every good man's praife, Among his flock the fhepherd pafs'd his days; The friend, the comfort of the fick 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 bleffings did his life attend,

He had no foe, and Camden was his friend.

POPE.

Infcription on a Grotto of Souls, a Crux-Eafton ¶,
the Work of Nine young Ladies ***.
HERE, thunning idleness at once and praise,
The glittering emblem of each spotlefs dame,
This radiant pile nine rural fifters raife;
Clear as her foul, and fhining as her frame;
Beauty, which nature only can impart,
And fuch a polifh as difgraces art;
But fate difpos'd them in his humble fort,
And hid in deferts what would charm a court.

Verfes occafioned by feeing a Grotto built by Nine
Sifters.

HERBERT.

much this building entertains my fight, Nought but the builders can give more delight: In them the mafter-piece of nature's fhown, In this I fee art's mafter-piece in stone.

Nature, Nature, thou haft conquer'd art; She charms the fight alone, but you the heart.

Lines written by the celebrated THOMSON to bis AMANDA; with a Copy of the SEASONS.

ACCEPT, dear Nymph! a tribute due

To facred friendship, and to you:
But with it take, what breath'd the whole,
O! take to thine the Poet's foul !

+He died October 26, 1764.

Mr. Quin died January, 1766.

With tempers too, as much the fame,
As milk and verjuice, froft and flame;
Their parts by properly fuftaining,
May all prove highly entertaining.

A Defcription of London. HOUSES, churches, mixt together, Streets unpleafant, in all weather; Prifons, palaces contiguous,

Gates, a bridge, the Thammes irriguous;
Gaudy things enough to tempt ye,
Showy outfides, infides empty;
Bubbles, trades, mechanic arts,
Coaches, wheelbarrows, and carts;
Warrants, bailiffs, bills unpaid,
Lords of laundreffes afraid;
Rogues that nightly rob and fhoot inen,
Hangmen, aldermen, and footinen;
Lawyers, poets, priests, phyficians,
Worth-beneath a threadbare cover,
Noble, finiple, all conditions;
Villany-bedaub'd all over;
Women, black, red, fair, and grey,
Prudes, and fuch as never pray;
Handfome, ugly, noify still,

Some that will not, fome that will;
Many a beau without a fhilling,

John Temple, of Malton, Surgeon.

By Mr. GENTLEMAN.

HERE, in just hope above the stars to rife,

The mortal part of ELLEN TEMPLE lies, In whom those beauties of a spotless mind, Faith and good works, were happily combin'd; A patient, careful, conftant, loving wife, The foe of fcandal and domeftic ftrife; The tender mother, undiffembling friend, Who grac'd thofe virtues with a pious end; Who, ftill preferving an unblemith'd name, Ne'er meanly ftrove to taint a neighbour's fame; Who 'play'd-as, reader, thou shouldft do-her With inward peace and rectitude of heart; [part Who, chriftian-like, refign'd her final breath, And, dying free from cenfuie-finil'd at death.

Many a bargain if you strike it,
This is London:-How d' ye like it?

A Country Quarter Seffions.

THR
HREE or four parfons full of October;
Three or four 'fquires between drunk and
fober;

Three or four lawyers, three or four lyars;
Three or four conftables, three or four cryers;
Three or four parishes bringing appeals,
Three or four writings, and three or four feals;
Three or four bastards, three or four whores,
Tag, rag, and bob-tail, three or four scores;
Three or four statutes, mifunderstood,
Three or four paupers, all praying for food;
Three or four roads that never were mended,
Three or four fcolds-and the feffion is ended.

THE

On Six Sorts of People who keep Fafts. HE mifer fafts because he will not eat, The poor man fafts because he has no meat; The rich man fafts with greedy mind to fpare, The glutton fafts, to eat the greater share; The hypocrite, he fafts to feem more holy, The righteous man, to punish fin and folly.

Epitaph on a Blackfmitb.
MY fledge and hammer lie declin'd,

My bellows too have loft their wind;
My fire''s extinct, my forge decay'd,
My vice is in the dust all laid;

My coal is fpent, my iron gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done.
My fire-dried corpfe lies here at reft,
My foul, fmoke-like, foars to be blest.

A whimsical Epitaph, taken from a Stone in a Church.
HERE lies the body of Sarah Sexton,
Who as a wife did never vex one;
We can't say that for her at th' next stone.

DEL

On Quadrille. To a young Lady. EIGN, lovely nymph, to hear the least of bards, Who draws inftruction from a game of cards; What tho' Quadrille perplex you, here is shown How hard the task for her who plays alone. But, wou'd you then consent to be a wife? Think first, O think! you play your cards for life! Should fordid friends controul your right goodwill, Beware the wretched state of forc'd Spadille. Should man, by grandeur, strive your heart to fire, A cross fifth well denotes a purie proud 'Squire; Then pafs by wealth and power, for better fure It is, with fome kind fwain to play fecure; And he, dear girl, who does your charms adore, Now asks you leave; O! let him foon fay more.

To-morrow. An Epigram. O-MORROW you will live, you always cry; In what far country does to-morrow lie, That 'tis fo mighty long ere it arrive? Beyond the Indies doth this morrow live? 'Tis fo far fetch'd, this morrow, that I fear 'Twill be both very old, and very dear. To-morrow I will live, the fool does fay,

To-day's too late: the wife liv'd yesterday.

Spoken Extempore by the Earl of Rochefter to a Parifb Clerk.

STERNHOLD and Hopkins had great qualms,
When they tranflated David's Pialms,

To make the heart full glad:
But had it been poor David's fate,
To hear thee fing, and them translate,

By Jove, 't would have made him mad.

Rhyme to Lisbon. By the fame.
HERE's a health to Kate,

Our Sovereign's mate,

Of the Royal Houfe of Lisbon;
But the Devil take Hyde,
And the Bishop befide,
That made her bone of his bone.

And when the full caroufe is o'er,
Death puffs the lights, and fhuts the door.
Say then, phyficians of each kind,
Who cure the body or the mind,
What harm in drinking can there be,
Since punch and life fo well agree ›

The Disappointed Hufband.
A Scolding wife to long a fleep poffefs'd,

Her fpoufe prefum'd her foul was now at reft;
Sable was call'd to hang the room with black,
And all their cheer was fugar, rolls, and fack.
Two mourning staffs flood fentry at the door,
And filence reign'd, who ne'er was there before;
The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs prepar'd,
They march'd in woeful pomp to the church-yard;
When fee, of narrow fireets, what mifchiefs come!
The very dead can 't pafs in quiet home;
By fome rude jolt the coffin-lid was broke,
And Madam from her dream of death awoke.
Now all was fpoil'd! the Undertaker's pay,
Sour faces, cakes and wine, quite thrown away.
But fome years after, when the former fcene
Was acted, and the coffin nail'd again;
The tender husband took efpecial care
To keep the paffage from difturbance clear;
Charging the bearers that they tread aright,
Nor put his dear in fuch another fright.

Epigram by the Rev. Francis Blackburne, M. A.
Late Archdeacon of Cleveland.
LYCIDAS to PRUDENTIA.

DESCEND, fair Stoick, from thy flights;

From nature learn to know

Our paffions are the needful weights,
That make our virtues go.

PRUDENTIA to LYCIDAS.

True, Lycidas; but think not fo
Another truth to fhun;
Our paffions make our virtues go,
But make our vices run.

An Epigram. MUSIC's a crotchet the fober thinks vain, The fiddle's a wooden projection; Tunes are but flirts of a whimfical brain, Which the bottle brings beft to perfection. Musicians are half-witted, merry, and mad, The fame are all thofe that admire 'em ; They're fools if they play, unless they're well paid,

And the others are blockheads to hire 'em.

An Epigram. SAYS Johnny to Paddy, "I can't for my life "Conceive how a dumb pair are made man and wife,

Since they can't with the form and the parfon "accord."

Says Paddy, "You fool! they take each other's "word."

A

The Biter bit.
Certain prieft had hoarded up
A fecret mafs of gold;
But where he might bestow it fafe,
By fancy was not told.

At last it came into his head
To lock it in a cheft
Within the chancel; and he wrote
Thereon, Hic Deus eft.

A merry grig, whofe greedy mind
Long with'd for such a prey,
Refpecting not the facred words
That on the casket lay,
Took out the gold, and blotting out
The pric's infcript thereon,
Wrote, Refurrexit, non eft hic,

"Your God is role and gone."

Similies

Similies. To Molly.

MY paffion is as muftard strong;

I fit all fober fad;

Drunk as a piper all day long,

Or like a March hare mad. Round as a hoop the bumpers flow,

I drink, yer can 't forget her; For, tho' as drunk as David's fow,

I love her ftill the better. Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cucumber could fee The rest of womankind.

Like a ftuck pig I gaping ftare,

And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake with fighs and care,

Sleek as a moufe before.
Plump as a partridge was I known,

And foft as filk my fkin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown;
But as a groat now thin!

I, melancholy as a cat,

Am kept awake to weep;
But fhe, infenfible of that,
Sound as a top can fleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to fee me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brifk as bottled ale.

The God of love at her approach

Is bufy as a bee;
Hearts found as any bell or roach
Are fmit, and figh like me.
Ay me as thick as hops or hail
The fine men crowd about her;
But foon as dead as a door-nail

Shall I be, if without her.
Straight as my leg her fape appears;
O! were we join'd together,
My heart would be fcot-free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.
As fine as five-pence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as a razor keen,

And not the fun is brighter. As foft as pap her kisses are,

Methinks I taste them vet; Brown as a berry is her hair,

Her eyes as black as jet.

As fmooth as glass, as white as curds,
Her pretty hand invites;

Sharp as a needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.
Brifk as a body-loufe the trips,
Clean as a peny dreft;
Sweet as a rofe her breath and lips,
Round as a globe her breaft.
Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king!

Good Lord! how all men envied me!
She lov'd like any thing:

But falfe as hell, the like the wind Chang'd, as her fex must do; Tho' feeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru; Great as an emperor fhould I be, And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;
Let us like burrs together ftick,
And warm as any toaft.
You'll find me truer than a die,
And with me better sped.
Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun fhe 'll drop a tear,
And figh perhaps, and with,
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.

On the Shortness of Human Life. LIKE as a damask rose you fee,

Or like the bloffom on the tree :

Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning to the day;
Or like the fun, or like the fhade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had :
E'en fuch is man, whose thread is fpun,
Drawn out and cut, and fo is done;
Withers the rofe, the bloffom blasts,
The flower fades, the morning hastes;
The fun doth fet, the fhadows fly,
The gourd confumes, and mortals die.

Like to the grafs that 's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that 's new begun;
Or like a bird that 's here to-day,

Or like the pearled dew of May;
Or like an hour, or like a fpan,
Or like the finging of a fwad:
Ev'n fuch is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death;
The grafs decays, the tale doth end,
The bird is flown, the dews afcend;
The hour is fhort, the fpan not long,
The fan 's near death, man's life is done.
Like to the bubble in the brook,
Or in a glafs much like a look:
Or like the fhuttle in the hand,
Or like the writing in the fand;
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of the ftream:
E'en fuch is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death;

The