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Lines from Mr. Gk to a Nobleman, who asked him if he did not intend being in Parliament.

ORE than content with what my labours gain,

Mo Of public favour though a little vain ;

Yet not fo vain my mind, fo madly bent,
To wish to play the fool in parliament;
In each dramatic unity to err s

Miftaking time and place and chara&er!
Were it my fate to quit the mimic art,
I'd "ftrut, and fret," no more in any part;
No more in public fcenes would I

engage,
Or wear the cap and mask on any stage.

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(Once a stable pillar of the state)
Admiral EDWARD BOSCAWEN,
Who died

January the 10th, 1761.
In the fiftieth year of his age;
Equally in the luftre of renown
As in the meridian of life.
His birth, tho' noble,

His titles, tho' illuftrious,

Were but incidental additions to his greatness.
Be these therefore the leffer theme of heralds,
Whilft the annals of adverse nations,
If they faithfully record,

What our own history,
Proud to adorn her page,
Muft perpetuate;

Shall even to late pofterity convey,
With what ardent zeal,

With what fuccessful valour,

He ferved his country,

And taught her foes to dread
Her naval power.

Alfo,

What an inflexible attachment to merit

Flourishing beneath his happy aufpices,
What an affemblage

Of

EPITAPH

I

Of

Intrepidity, humanity and justice,
United

To form his character,
And render him

At once beloved and envied.
Yet know, infidious Gaul!
Eternal enemy of this our isle !
Howe'er our grief

May seem to give thee prefent exultation";
Yet, even after death,
BOSCAWEN's triumphs

Shall to fucceedings ages stand
A fair example,

And roufe the active fons of Britain,
Like him,

To dart the terror of their thunders
On Gallic perfidy!

So fhall the conquefts which his deeds infpired,
Indelibly tranfmit his virtues,
(A blaze of martial glory)
Far beyond

The mural epitaph,
Or,

The local and perishable monuments

Of brafs or ftone.

on the late Mr. Richardfon, Author of Pamela, Sir Charles Grandifon, &c.

F ever warm benevolence was dear,
If ever wisdom gain'd efteem fincere,
Or genuine fancy deep attention won,
Approach with awe the duft-of Richardfon.

What tho' his Mufe, thro' diftant regions known,
Might fcorn the tribute of this humble stone ;
Yet pleafing to his gentle fhade, muft prove
The meaneft pledge of friendship, and of love :
For oft will thefe, from venal throngs exil'd;
And oft will Innocence, of afpect mild,
And white-rob'd Chastity, with ftreaming eyes
Frequent the cloister where their patron lies.

This, reader, learn; and learn from one, whofe woe
Bids her wild verfe in artlefs accents flow:
For, could the frame her numbers to commend

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The hufband, father, citizen and friend;

How would her Mufe difplay, in equal strain,
The critic's judgment, and the writer's vein ?

S 2

Ah,

Ah, no! expect not from the chiffel'd stone
The praifes, graven on our hearts alone.
There hall his fame a lafting fhrine acquire :
And ever shall his moving page infpire

Pure truth, fixt honour, virtue's pleafing lore;
While taste, and science crown this favour'd fhore.

T

On the death of JOHN RICH, Esq;

Accept this latest tribute at my band.

SHAKESPEARE.

HE fcene is clos'd-Life's play is done-
And pleafantry expires with Lun;

Who well perform'd, with various art,
The mimick, and the moral part.
His action, juft, correct his plan,
Whether as Harlequin, or man.
Hear, criticks, hear! and fpare your jeft,
Life's but a motley-garb at best;
He wore it long with grace and eafe,
And ev'ry geiture taught to please;
Where (fome few patch-work foibles feen
Scatter'd around-blue-yellow-green-.)
His conftant virtue's radiant hue
O'er all fuperior fhone to view.

The lively vein of repartee,

As magick-fword, was fmart and free;
Like that, for harmless mirth defign'd,
It ftruck, but left no pain behind.
The mafque of oddity, he wore,
Endear'd the hidden beauties more.
When thrown afide, the fhade was clear'd,
The real countenance appear'd.

Where human kindness, candour fair,
And truth the native features were.
With moral eye his labours fcan,

And in the actor read the man.

How few, like him, could change with ease,
From shape to shape, and all should please!
Think on the num'rous hours of sport
We spent with him in Fancy's court!
What ev'nings of fupreme delight!

They're paft-they're clos'd in endless night.
For gratitude, for virtue's caufe,

Crown his last exit with applause.

Let

Let him not want the lasting praise,
(That noble meed of well-fpent days!)
While, this his mortal dress laid by
With ready grace, and decency,
Now changing on a nobler plan,
To blissful faint from worthy man,
He makes, on yon celestial shore,
One eafy transformation more.

The rife of Tear

Hink not, the fair deceiv'd by poet's lays,
Cupid in floth in glorious melts his days;
Think not enchain'd on Chloe's breast he lies,
Or bathes himself in Delia's languid eyes;
Now here, now there, the wanton wanderer roves,
O'er Belgia's waters, or Italia's groves;
Now foothes the hearts of Gallia's filken fwains,
Now fires the tawny youth on Java's plains.
As o'er luxurious China's fields he fails,
Upborn by lovers fighs, and balmy gales,
Deep in the bofom of a fragrant glade,
Where pines flow-moving form'd a dancing fhade,
Where Zephyr ftole the rofe's rich perfume,

And wakeful almonds fhook their fnowy bloom,
Crown'd with rough thickets rofe a mofs-grown cave,
Whose tinkling fides pour down a fparkling wave:
Unwilling to defert its native groves,

The ling ring ftream in flow'ry lab'rinths roves;
The god of love feeds his infatiate fight,
Slow wave his loose wings, and retard his flight.
But fay, what foft confufion feiz'd thy breaft,
What heaving fighs thy inftant flame confeft,
When Thea broke from Morpheus' dewey arms,
Rofe from the grot, and blaz'd in all her charms?
Its fwelling orb no hoop enormous fpread,
Like magic fphere to guard the tim❜rous maid;
No torturing stays the yielding waist confin'd,
A blifs for lovers arms alone defign'd;
Her hair, by no malicious art reprefs'd,
Play'd in the wind, and wanton'd o'er her breast.
Jove grew a fwan to prefs the Spartan fair,

What form to tafte those charms would Cupid wear?
Quick thro' the founding grove the god defcends,
Quick at her feet a fighing fappliant bends.
Can youth be deaf when Syren paffion fues?
Or how can beauty fly, when love pursues ?

No more he feeks the Cyprian's fmoaking fanes,
Or fips rich nectar in celestial plains;

In Thea's heart a flame more pleafing glows,
And from her lips more luscious nectar flows.
Venus indignant faw her power decay,

And rufh'd impetuous through the realms of day
Thus doft thou guard thy once lov'd parent's throne?
Shall then the rebel-power my power difown?
See! where the fatal caufe of my difgrace
(Each hateful beauty glowing in her face)
Infulting ftands!There let her fixt remain,
Nor be the anger of a goddess vain.

To kneel to fue fhe ftrove, unhappy maid!
In vain, her stiffening knees refuse their aid:
Her arms the lifts with pain, in wild furprize
She starts to see a verdant branch arise
O love! fhe try'd to fay, thy Thea aid,
Her ruddy lips the envious leaves invade :
Yet then, juft finking from his tortur'd view,
Her fwimming eyes languifh'd a laft adieu.
Venus triumphant, with a fcornful fmile,
Points to the tree, and feeks the Cyprian ifle.
He mark'd the goddess with indignant eyes,
And grief and rage, alternate tyrants, rife.
Then fighing o'er the vegetable fair,
Yet ftill, he Yaid, thou claim'ft thy Cupid's care!
Her arts no more fhall Cytherea prove,
But own my Thea aids the caufe of love.
To the free ifle, I'll give thy rites divine,

To nymphs, whofe charms alone can equal thine.
For thee the toiling fons of Ind' fhall drain

The honey'd fponge, which fwells the leafy cane ;`
The gentle Naiads to thy fhrine fhall bring
The limpid treasures of the cryftal fpring;
Thy verdant bloom fhall ftain the glowing ftream,
Diffufing fragrance in the quivering fteam;
Around thy painted altars' brittle pride,

Shall dimpled fmiles, and fleek-brow'd health prefide;
Whilft white-rob'd nymphs difplay each milder grace,
The morning dream juft glowing on each face.
With joy I fee, in ages yet unborn,

Thy votarifts the British ifle adorn.
With joy I fee enamour'd youths defpife
The goblet's luftre for the fair one's eyes:
Till rofy Bacchus fhall his wreaths refign,
And Love and Thea triumph o'er the vine.

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