EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND OTHER LITTLE PIECES.

Dr a very rich Gentleman drinking the Waters | To a Lady, wilh a Print of Venus attired by of Tunbridge Wells, who had refused to con

the Graces. tribute to the Relief of a distress'd Family. That far superior is thy state For deepest woes old Harpax scorns to feel; Even envy must agree; Think ye his bowels stand in need of steel? On thee a thousand Graces wait,

On Venus only three.

XX

The Art of making one's own Sermons, illus- To a Gentleman who was obliged to retreat for trated by Example.

fear of a disagreeable Retaliation. Jack stole his discourse from the fam'dThat Cotta is so pale, so spare, Doctor Brown,

No cause for wonder now affords;
But reading it wretchedly made it his own. He lives, alas ! on empty fare,

Who lives by eating his own words.
Know Thyself.
Fitz to the Peerage knows he's a disgrace,

On the Dutchess of Devonshire.
So mounts the coach-box as his proper place. Array'd in matchless beauty, Devon's fair

In Fox's favor takes a zealous part:

But, oh! where'er the pilferer comes-beware! WHILE Dick to combs hostility proclaims,

She supplicates a voie, and steals a heart. A neighbouring taper sets his hair in flames: The blaze extinct, permit us to inquire, On the Phrase, “ Killing Time." Translated "Were there no lives lost, Richard, in the

from Voltaire. fire?

“ There's scarce a point wherein mankind

agree,

So well as in their boast of killing me.
Ignotum omne pro magnifico.

I boast of nothing: but, when I've a mind,
Averse to pamper’dand high-mettled steeds, I think I can be even with mankind.”
His own upon chopp'd straw Avaro feeds :
Bred in his stable, in his paddock born,
What yast ideas they must have of corn!

“ Brother bucks, your glasses drain :

Tom, 'tis strong and sparkling red."

“ Never fear-'twon't reach my brain."A Case of Conscience; submitted to a late Dig- “No-that's true—but 'twill your head."

nilary of the Church, on kis Narcotic Exposition of the following Text: “ Watch and Pray, lest ye enter into Temptation."

The gay Flirtilla show'd her mimic bust,

And ask'd blunt Senso if 'twere fashion'd just. By our pastor perplext, How shall we determine?

“ Ma'am," he replied, “ in this ’tis much like * Watch and pray,” says the Text,

you ; “Go to sleep," says the Sermon.

The face is painted, and that badly too."

An Expostulation.
On a Lady who squinted.

When late I attempted your pity to move, If ancient poets Argus prize

Why seem'd you so deaf to my prayers ? Who boasted of a hundred eyes,

Perhaps it was right to dissemble your loveSure greater praise to her is due

But—why did you kick me down stairs ? Who looks a hundred ways with two!

Epitaph. As Will along the floor had laid

Here is my much-lov'd Celia laid, His lazy limbs in solemn show,

At rest from all her earthly labors ! " You're ill," quoth Sal, “ I'm sore afraid." | Glory to God, peace to the dead, • Indeed,” says Will, “ I'm rather low." And to the ears of all her neighbours.

On Mr. Churchill's Death.

Says Tom to Richard, “ Churchill's dead." “ My wife's so very bad,” cried Will, Says Richard, “ Tom, you lie: « I fear she ne'er will hold it

Old Rancour the report has spread, She keeps her bed !”—“Mine's worse," quoth But Genius cannot die."

Phil, “ The jade has just now sold it."

Jack brags he never dines at home,

With reason too, no doubiThe Clown's Reply. GOLDSMITH. In truth, Jack never dines at all, John Trott was desired by two witty peers

Unless invited out. To tell then the reason why asses had ears : “ An't please you,” quoth John, “ I'm not To Chloe. By Peter PINDAR. given to letters,

[betters: Nor dare I pretend to know more than my Who gladly would embrace thy chain,

Dear Chloe, well I know the swain, Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces,

And who, alas! can blame him? [asses."

Affect not, Chloe, a surprise : As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on

Look but a inoment on these eyes,

Thou'lt ask me not to name him.
An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex. By the Sume.
Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,

Garrick and his brother Actor. By the same.
Who never wanted a good word

A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meet From those who spoke her praise.

The British Roscius in the street The needy seldom pass'd her door,

(Garrick, of whom our nation justly brags). And always found her kind;

The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embraceShe freely lent to all the poor

“Good Sir, I do not recollect your face," srags : Who left a pledge behind."

Quoth Garrick.-“ No!" reply'd the man of

“The boards of Drury you and I have trod She strove the neighbourhood to please,

Full many a time together, I am sure.” With manners wondrous winning; “When?" with an oath, cried Garrick-"for, And never follow'd wicked ways

by G , Unless when she was sinning.

I never saw that face of yours before! At church with silks and satins new,

What characters, I pray, With hoop of monstrous size;

Did you and I together play?" She never slumber'd in her pew

“ Lord!" quoth the fellow, " think not that I But when she shut her eyes.

mockHer love was sought, I do aver,

When you play'd Hamlet, Sir, I play'd the

Cock.
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.

On the Death of a promising Youth of Eighteca.
But now, her wealth and finery Aed,

Though death the virtuous young destroy, Her hangers-on cut short all,

They go to rest, and heavenly joy: The doctors found, when she was dead,

Life is not to be judg’d by mys, Her last disorder-mortal.

Virtue endures when time decays ; Let us lament in sorrow sore;

And many old we falsely call,
For Kent-street well may say,

Who truly never liv'd at all :
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more, For what is time, if not employ'd
She had not died to-day.

In worthy deeds, but all a void?

Then think not, though abridgd by fare,
On a Miser.

Too short this youth's allotted date;
IRON was his chest,

With dignity he fill'd his span,

In conduct and in worth a man.
Iron was his door,
His hand was iron,

So spent, a life to heaven appears

As full as Nestor's length of years.
iAnd his heart was more.
On Dr. King's (the celebrated Orator and Ja- On a whole family cut off by the Small-por.

cobite, of Oxford) Ridicule of the Quack By Master PETER RAINIER.
Doctor Oculist Taylor, who called himself
the Chevalier Taylor.

At once depriv'd of life, lies here

A family to virtue dear.
What could provoke old King'o sneer Though far remov'd from regal state,
Our most renown'd Eye-mender?

Their virtues made them truly great.
King praises but one Chevalier,

Lest one should feel the other's fall, And owns but one Pretender.

Death has, in kindness, seiz'd them all.

ANSWER.

Conscience.
A DOCTOR there is of so humble a grace, The Chartreux wants the warning of a bell
That the case he durst never express :

To call him to the duties of his cell;
But little he says, and if that you will trace, There needs no noise at all t' awaken sin,
His knowledge you'll find to be less.

Th'adulterer and thief his 'larum has within.
Then sure you will say he's deficient in brain;
Or his head to a still you'll compare,

Lines sent to Mr. Cosway, while Lady C. PawThat does little or nothing but simples contain,

let was sitting to him. And yields them by drops that are rare.

Cosway, my Cath'rine sits to you: A Distich written by Mr. Cowper, at the Request This nosegay on your pallet place,

And, that the col’ring may be true, of a Gentleman who importuned him to write

Replete with all the tints that grace something in his Pocket Album.

The various beauties of her face. I were indeed indifferent to fame,

Her skin the snow-drop's whiteness shows, Grudging two lines t’inmortalize my name.

Her blushing cheek the op'ning rose :

Her eyes the modest violet speak, An old Gentleman of the name of Page, finding The spicy pink, in morning dew,

Whose silken fringes kiss her cheek. a Lady's Glove, sent it to the Owner, with Presents her fragrant lips to view. this Distich, and received the following An

The glossy curls that crown her head,

Paint from the gilt-cup of the mead.
If that from Glove you take the letter G, Long may her image fill my eye,
Then Glove is love, and that I send to thee. When these fair emblems fade and die;

Placed on my faithful breast, and prove

'Tis Cosway paints the Queen of Love. If that from Page you take the letter P, Then Page is age, and that won't do for me. On seeing a Dog asleep near his Master.

Thrice happy dog! thou feelst no woe, On his Excellency the late Lord Galloway and

No anguish to molest his Couk.

Thy peaceful hours that sweetly flow,

Alternate sport and rest.
SAYS my Lord to his cook, “ You son of a
punk,

Man's call’d thy lord--affliction's heir !
How comes it I see you, thus, ev'ry day drunk? And sorrow's only son!
Physicians, they say, once month do allow Whilst he's a slave to ev'ry care,
A man, for his health, to get drunk as a sow.”

And thou art slave to none.
“ That is right," quoth the cook,“ but the day Blest, near thy master thus 10 lie,
they don't say;

And blest with him to róve! “ So for fear I should miss it, I'm drunk ev'ry Unstain'd by guilt thy moments fly day."

On wings of grateful love.

Oh! that my heart, like thine, could taste
To an unfortunate Beauty.

The sweets of guiltless life!

Beyond the reach of passion placed,
Say, lovely maid, with downcast eye,
And cheek with silent sorrow pale,

Its anguish and its strife.
What gives thy heart the lengthen'd sigh,
That heaving tells a mournful tale?

On a Waiter, once at Arthur's, and a FellowThy tears, which thus each other chase, servant of his there, both since Members of

Parliament, and the last a Nabob. Bespeak a breast o'erwhelm'd with woe; Thy sighs, a storm which wrecks thy peace, When Bob M-ck-th, with upper servant's

Which souls like thine should never know. pride, Oh! tell me, doth some favour'd youth,

“ Here, sirrah, clean my shoes," 10 Rumbad

cry'd, Too often blest, thy beauties slight; And leave those thrones of love and truth,

He humbly answer'd, “ Yea, Bob :" That lip, and bosom of delight?

But since retürn'd from India's plunder'd land,

The purse-proud Rumbmd now, on such comWhat though to other nymphs he flies,

mand,
And feigns the fond, impassion'd tear, Would stoutly answer, “ Nay, Bob.”
Breathes all the eloquence of sighs

That treach'rous won thy artless ear?
Let not those nymphs thy anguish move, To rob the nation two contractors come,

For whom his heart may seem to pine ! One cheats in corn, the other cheats in rum: That heart shall ne'er be blest by love, The greater rogue 'tis hard to ascertain ;

Whose guilt can force a pang from thine. The rogue in spirits, or the rogue in grain.

Verses written by a Gentleman on finding an Urn. Accurs'd be the merciless band,

Who his love could from Maratan tear; Tripling mortal, tell me why Thou hast disturb'd my urn;

And blasted this impotent hand, Want'st thou to find out what am I?

That was sever'd from all I held dear. Vain man! attend, and learn :

Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow,

Still let sleep from my eye-lids depart,
To know what letters spelt my name
Is useless quite to thee;

And still may the arrows of woe

Drink deep of the stream of my heart! A heap of dust is all I am, And all that thou shalt be.

But hark! on the silence of night Go now, that heap of dust explore,

My Adila's accents I hear, Measure its grains, or weigh;

And'ınournful beneath the wan light Canst thou the title which I bore

I see her lov'd image appear! Distinguish in the clay?

Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides, What glitt'ring honors, or high trust,

As the mist that hangs light on the wave ; Once dignified me here,

And fondly her lover she chides, Were characters imprest on dust,

That lingers so long from the grave. Which quickly disappear.

“O Maratan, haste thee!" she cries, Nor will the sparkling atoms show

“ Here the reign of oppression is o'er, A Claudius or a Guelph :

The tyrant is robb’d of his prize, Vain search if here the source thou'dst know,

And Adila sorrows no more." Of nobles, or thyself.

Now, sinking amidst the dim ray, The mould will yield no evidence

Her form seems to fade on my view; By which thou mayst divine

() stay then, my Adila, stayIf lords or beggars issued thence,

She beckons, and I must pursue. And form'd the ancient line.

To-morrow, the white man in vain Learn then the vanity of birth ;

Shall proudly account me his slave; Condition, honors, name,

My shackles I plunge in the main,
Are all but modes of common earth,

And rush to the realms of the brave.
The substance just the samne.
Bid av'rice and ambition view
Th' extent of all their gains;

Elegy to the Memory of Miss Louise Hanway,
Themselves, and their possessions too,
A gallon vase contains.

O THOU, to whom fair Genius homage paid, Haste, lift thy thoughts from earthly things

Whom science courted, and the Muses lord:

Whose mind the hand of lanocence array'd, To more substantial bliss ; And leave that grov'ling pride to kings,

Pure as that form which Eory's self apWhich ends in dirt like this.

prov'd : Let virtue be thy radiant guide,

Accept these tributary drops-these sighs! "Twill dignify thy clay,

(Remembrance still will on thy virtues And raise thy ashes glorified,

dwell)

[ske When suns shall fade away.

Tho' nought could check thy progress to the

The soul must cherish hers it lov'd so weit. The Negro's Complaint.

For thou wert all ambition could desire, Wide over the tremulous sea

Endow'd with all that nature could importi The moon spread her mantle of light, Warm was thy breast with Friendship's sucicu And the gale, gently dying away,

fire, Breath'd soft on the bosom of night. And form'd for sentiment thy gentle heart. On the forecastle Maratan stood,

Near thy blest shade the pensive Muse shar And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale ;

stray, His tears fell unseen in the flood,

Led by the pallid moon's uncertain lighi, His sighs pass'd unheard on the gale. Sad tribute to thy peerless worth to pay, Ab, wretch! in wild anguish he cry'd,

And to thy tomb soft Sympathy invite. From country and liberty torn;

Lamenting Memory, too, shall linger there, Ah! Maratan, wouldst thou had died,

And cull sweet flow’rs to decs thy hi! Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne!

shrine: Through the groves of Angola I stray'd, For thee indulge the deep-drawn sigh sincere.

Love and Hope made my bosom their home, And o'er thy ashes shall with pity pine. There I talk'd with my favourite maid,

Yet check'd should be those tears thy tries Nor dream'd of the sorrow to come. From the thicket the man-hunter sprung, That grief, which thy fond parents'peace de My cries echo'd loud through the air ;

stroys; There was fury and wrath on his tongue, For thou art only rank'd amongst the deals

He was deaf to the shrieks of despair. To find a passage to eternal joys.

may shed,

That Power which seal'd th' apparent harsh | Though Greece in shining temples heretofore decree,

Did Venus' and Minerva's pow'rs adore, Who ev'ry feeling of thy heart could know, The ancients thought no single goddess fit Judg’d what thy pangs from future ills might be, To reign at once o'er beauty and o'er wit; And snatch'd thee early from a world of woe. Each was a sep’rate claim; till now we find

The different titles in Melinda join'd. On an unfortunate Beauty. Anon.

An opera, like a pill'ry, may be said Poor wand'rer ! how shall that weak form,

To nail our ears down, but expose our head. So loosely clad in vesture light, Endure the malice of the storm, The rudeness of the winter's night?

Lucia, thinks happiness consists in state;

She weds an idiot, but she eats in plate. And does a smile thy cheek illume?

Alas! that faint and feeble glow Is like the flower's untimely bloom,

To the Hon. Mrs. Perceval, with Hutcheson's Drooping amidst a waste of snow.

Treatise on Beauty and Order. Grierson. Poor wretch-you sigh, you would unfold The course of sorrow you have run :

TH'internal senses painted here we see: A simple story, quickly told

They're born in others, but they live in thee. You lov’d, believ'd, and were undone.

0! were our author with thy converse blest,

Could he behold the virtues of thy breast; Why weep you as my hand you press ? His needless labors with contempt he'd view,

Why on my features gaze and sigh? And bid the world not read—but copy you.
Would no one pity your distress?
None listen to your tale, but 1?

Jack eating rotten cheese, did say,
Alas! a pittance scant, I fear,

Like Samson, I my

thousands slay : Is all the joy I can bestow;

I yow, quoth Roger, so you do,
I can but wipe away one tear,

And with the self-same weapon too.
One moment from a life of woe.
Yet e'en for this your grateful eye

On God's Omnipotence.
To heaven is rais'd-Poor girl, adieu !
To scenes of senseless mirth | Ay,

When Egypt's host God's chosen tribe

purTo poverty and sickness you.

sued,

In crystal walls th' admiring waters stood; By Dr. Young.

When thro' the dreary wastes they took their

way, As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, The rocks relented, and pour'd forth a sea ! So wit is by politeness sharpest set ;

What limits can th' Almighty goodness know, Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Since seas can harden, and since rocks can flow! Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

sung Achilles'

Advice to Mr. Pope, on his intended Transla

Simili similis gaudet. tion of Homer, 1714.

When Chloe's picture was to Chloe shown, O Thou who, with a happy genius born,

Adorn'd with charms and beauties not her own; Canst tuneful verse in Aowing numbers turn,

Where Hogarth, pitying nature, kindly made Crown'd on thy Windsor's plains with early Such lips, such eyes, as Chloe never had; bays,

Ye Gods! she cries in ecstasy of heart, Be early wise, nor trust to barren praise.

How near can nature be express'd by art! Blind was the Bard that

Well! it is wondrous like! nay, let me die,

rage, He sung, and begg'd, and curs'd th’ungiving The very pouting lip, the killing eye !

Blunt and severe as Manly in the play, age: If Britain his translated song would hear,

Downright replies: Like, madam, do you say? First take the gold—then charm the list'ning The picture bears this likeness, it is true:

The canvas painted is, and so are you.
So shall thy father Homer smile to see
His pension paid, tho' late—and paid to thee.

My sickly spouse with many a sigh

Oft tells me--Billy, I shall die ! TH' inspiring muses, and the god of love, I griev'd, but recollected straight Which most should grace the fair Melinda 'Tis bootless to contend with fate ;

So resignation to Heaven's will Love arm'd her with his bow and keenest Prepard me for succeeding ill. darts,

'Twas well it did; for on my life, The muses more enrich'd her mind with arts. 'Twas Heaven's will-10 spare my wise.

ear;

strove.