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TO WHOM A LADY HAD GIVEN A
SPRIG OF MYRTLE *.
WHAT hopes, what terrors, does this gift create?
* These verses were first printed 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 Lady FIREBRACE*,
At BURY ASSIZES.
AT length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
To LYCE, an elderly Lady.
By flatt'ring poets given,
In all the pomp of Heaven;
Which gild a lover's lays,
et Lyce Thare the praise.
* This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, Esq. of Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, Elg. of that town. She became the second wife of Sir Cordell Firebrace, the latt Baronet of that name (to whoin flie 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, "82.
Her filver locks display the moon,
Her brows a cloudy.show,
And show'rs from either flow.
Her teeth the night with darkness dyes,
She 's starr'd with pimples o'er;
And can with thunder roar.
But some Zelinda, while I fing,
Denies my Lyce shines;
Attack my gentle lines.
Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards express, My Lyce makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter less.
ON THE DEATH OF
A Practiser in Phyfic.
As on we toil from day to day,
Our social comforts drop away.
See Levet to the grave descend,
Of ev'ry friendless name the friend.
Yet ftill 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 hov’ring death prepar'd the blow, His vig'rous remedy display'd
The pow'r of art without the show.
In misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
And lonely want retir'd to die.
No petty gain disdain'd by pride,
The toil of ev'ry day fupply'd.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure th’ Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
Though 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*.
PHILIPS ! whose touch harmonious could remove
pangs of guilty pow'r, and hapless love,
THOMAM HANMER, BARONETTUM.
Honorabilis admodum THOMAS HANMER,
Baronettus, Wilhelmi Hanmer armigeri, è Peregrinâ Henrici
North De Mildenhall in Com. Suffolciæ Baronetti forore
Johannis Hanmer de Hanmer Baronetti
* 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. Phil. lips was a travelling fidler up and down Wales, and was greatly celebrated for his performance. † At Hanmer church, in Flintshire.