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Where 'midft the friendly joys that wait
Philander's hofpitable gate,

Freedom and genuine mirth I found,
Sporting the jovial board around.

'Twas there, with keen, though polish'd jeft
You fat, a pleas'd and pleafing gueft;
With focial ease a part fuftain'd

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More humourous far than e'er you feign'd. “Take him,” I cry'd, "bright comic Maid, "In all your native charms array'd; "No longer fhall my doubts appear.' When Clio whisper'd in my ear, "Go, bid it be no more difputed, "For what his talents beft are fuited: "In mimic characters alone

"Let others fhine-but Garrick in his own.

* Rigby.

TH

TO THE MEMORY OF

DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

JANUARY 20, 1779.

HOU great reviver of the Attic fire! Thou nobleft patron of the tuneful lyre! Thine was the power, and thine the gentle art, To fwell the paffions, and fubdue the heart! For thee, the fairest breast has heav'd a figh, And the tear started from the brightest eye! Learning and wit alike have bow'd the knee, And hermits left their cells to gaze on thee! On thee fhall charm'd remembrance love to reft; Come every Mufe, and ftrive to praise him beft! For, ah! my lute the tribute cannot pay, And the big tear has blotted out the lay! Ye fkilful nine, who fhall the chaplet weave? Hail his bright day! !-nor mourn his tranquil eve ! Your Garrick hail!-he breathes, he lives again, Lives in the thought, and breathes in every flrain! Triumphant Fame enrols his acts on high,

And tells the mourner-Garrick cannot die!

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

FIRST PUBLISHED BY MR. PERCY.

IT

T 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 Chrift thee fave, thou reverend Friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy fhrine

My true-love thou didst fee.

And how should I know your true love

From any other one?

O, by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his fandal fhoon.

But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were fo fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.

O Lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!

And at his head a green grafs turf,
And at his heels a stone.

Within thefe holy cloifters long
He languish'd and he died,

Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

Here bore him barefac'd on his bier,
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth And art thou dead and gone! And didft thou die for love of me? Break, cruel heart of stone!

O weep not, Lady, weep not fo!
Some ghoftly comfort feek:

Let not vain forrows rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy Friar,

My forrow now reprove : For I have loft the sweetest youth 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 only wish to live,

For thee I wish to die.

Weep no more, Lady, weep no more, Thy forrow is in vain;

}

For violets pluck'd, the fweeteft fhowers Will ne'er make grow again.

Our joys as winged dreams do fly,
Why then fhould forrow laft?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past.

O fay not fo, thou holy Friar,
I pray thee fay not fo:
For fince iny true-love dy'd for me,
'Tis meet my tears fhould flow.

And will he never come again?
Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he's dead, and laid in his
For ever to remain.

grave,

His cheek was redder than the role;
The comelieft youth was he!
But he is dead, and laid in his grave:
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.

Hadft thou been fond, he had been falfe,
And left thee fad and heavy;
For young men e'er were fickle found,
Since fummer trees were leafy.

Now fay not fo, thou holy Friar,
I pray thee fay not fo:

My love he had the trueft heart,
O he was ever true!

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