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Where 'midst the friendly joys that wait Philander's * hospitable gate, Freedom and genuine mirth I found, Sporting the jovial board around. 'I was there, with keen, though polith d jest You lat, a pleas'd and pleasing guest; With social ease a part sustain'd More hunourous far than e'er you feign'd. “ Take him," I cry'd, “ bright comic Maid, “ In all your native charms array’d; “ No longer shall my doubts appear.” When Clio whisper'd in my ear, “Go, bid it be no more disputed, « For what his talents best are suited: os In mirnic characters alone " Let others thine-but Garrick in his own.
TO THE MEMORY OF
DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.
JANUARY 20, 1779.
THOU great reviver of the Attic fire!
the tuneful lyre!
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
FIRST PUBLISHED BY MR. PERCY.
IT was a Friar of Orders Gray;
Walk'd forth to tell his beads; And he met with a lady fair
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
Now Christ thee fave, thou reverend Friar,
thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy fhrine
My true love thou didit fee.
From any other one ?
And by his fandal fhoon.
But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view;
eyne of lovely blue.
O Lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's deal and gone ! And at his head a green grass turf,
And at his heels a stone.
Within these holy cloisters long
He languish'd and he died,
| And plaining of her pride.
Here bore him barefac'd on his bier,
Six proper youths and tall,
And art thou dead, thou gentle youth
And art thou dead and goire !
Break, cruel heart of stone!
Oweep not, Lady, weep not fo!
Some ghostly comfort seek :
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.
O do not, do not, holy Friar,
My sorrow now reprove :
That e'er won lady's love.
And now, alas! for thy fad loss,
I'll e'er more weep and figh;
For thee I wish to die.
Weep no more, Lady, weep no more,
Thy forrow is in vain;
Will ne'er make grow again.
Our joys as wiriged dreams do fly,
Why then Thould forrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is paft.
O say not so, thou holy Friar,
pray thee fay not fo: For fince iny true love dy'd for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow,
And will he never come again?
Will he ne'er come again? Ah! no, he's dead, and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.
His cheek was redder than the rose;
The comeliest youth was he!
Alas, and woe is me!
Sigh no more, Lady, figh no more,
Men were deceivers ever ; One foot on fea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.
Hadit thou been fond, he had been falfe,
And left thee fad and heavy;
Since summer trees were leafy.
I pray thee fay not io :
O he was ever true!