V E R S E S, WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN TO WHOM A LADY HAD GIVEN A SPRIG OF MYRTLE*. W" а HA T hopes, what terrors, does this gift create ? Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate. * These verses were firft priated in a Magazine for 1768, but were written between forty and fifty years ago. Elegant as they are, they were composed in the short space of five minutes. To To Lady FIRE BRACE*, At BURY ASSIZES. A T length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain, So long renown'd in B-n's deathless strain ? Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace, might inspire Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre ; For, such thy beauteous mind and lovely face, Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a Muse and Grace. To LYCE, an elderly Lady. E nymphs whom starry rays invest, By flattering poets given, Who shine, by lavish lovers drest, In all the pomp of Heaven; Engross not all the beams on high, Which gild a lover's lays, But, as your sister of the sky, Let Lyce share the praise. * This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, Esq. of Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, Esq. of that town. She became the second wife of Sir Cordell Firebrace, the last Baronet of that name (to whom she brought a fortune of 25,000l.), July 26, 1737. Being again left a widow in 1759, she was a third time married, April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, Esq. uncle to the present Duke of Argyle; and died July 3, 1782. Her Her filver locks display the moon, And showers from either flow. She's starr'd with pimples o’er ; And can with thunder roar. Denies my Lyce shines; Attack my gentle lines. And all her bards express, And I but fatter less. ON THE DEATH OF Mr. ROBERT LE V E T, A Practiser in Phyfic. CA YONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, Our social comforts drop away. See Levet to the grave defcend, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills Affection's eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny Thy praise to.merit unrefin'd. When fainting nature call’d for aid, And hovering death prepar'd the blow, His vig'rous remedy display'd The pow'r of art without the show. His useful care was ever nigh, And lonely want retir'd to die. No petty gain disdain’d by pride, The toil of every day supply'd. Nor made a pause, nor left a void; The single talent well employ’d. Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; Tho' now his eightieth year was nigh. No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way. EPITAPH on CLAUDE PHILLIPS, AN ITINERANT MUSICIAN* PHT The pangs of guilty pow'r, and hapless love, E P I T A P H I UM IN THOMAM HAN MER, BARONETTUM, Honorabilis admodum Thomas HANMER, Baronettus, Wilhelmi Hanmer armigeri è Peregrina Henrici North De Mildenhal in Com. Suffolciæ Baronnetti forore et hærede. Filius * These lines are among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies: they are nevertheless recognized as Johnson's in a memorandum of his hand-writing, and were probably written at her request. Phillips was a travelling fidler up and down Wales, and was greatly celebrated for his performance, Hæres |