TO MR. DERRICK,

UPON HIS RECALLING HIS ORDERS AGAINST

DANCING MINUETS IN SACKS.

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ

LYCURGUS of Bath,
Be not given to wrath,
Thy rigours the fair fhould not feel:
Still fix them your debtors,

Make laws like your betters,
And as fast as you make them—repeal.

THE FAIR MORALIST.

AS late by Thames's verdant fide,
With folitary, penfive air,

Fair Chloe fearch'd the filver tide,
With pleafing hope, and patient care;
Forth as the caft the filken fly,

And mufing ftroll'd the bank along,
She thought no lift'ning ear was nigh,
While thus the tun'd her meral fong.

The poor unhappy thoughtless fair,
Like the mute race, are oft undone;
Thefe with a gilded fly we fnare,

With gilded fatt'ry those are won.
Carelefs, like them, they frolic round,
And sportive tofs th' alluring bait;
At length they feel the treach'rous wound,
And ftruggle to be free, too late.

But ah! fair fools, beneath this fhew,
Of gaudy colours lurks a hook;
Cautious the bearded mischief view,
And ere you leap, be fure to look.
More fhe'd have fung-when from the shade
Rufh'd forth gay Damon, brifk and young;

And, whatfoe'er he did or faid,

Poor Chloe quite forgot her fong.

AN EPITAPH BY MR. PITT,

AND INSCRIBED ON A STONE THAT COVERS HIS
FATHER, MOTHER, AND BROTHER.

YE facred fpirits! while your friends diftrefs'd
Weep o'er your afhes, and lament the bless'd;
O let the penfive muse inscribe that stone,
And with the genʼral forrows mix her own:
The penfive mufe !-who from this mournful hour
Shall raife her voice, and wake the ftring no more!
Of love, of duty, this laft pledge receive;
'Tis all a brother, all a fon can give.

A RE

To transcribe from my grandmother's book a receipt;

And a comfort it is to a wight in distress,
He's of fome little ufe-but he can't be of lefs.
Were greater his talents--you might ever command
His head, that's worth nought")-then his
heart and his hand.

66

So your mandate obeying, he fends you, d'ye fee, The genuine receipt to make l'eau de la vie.

Take feven large lemons and pare them as thin As a wafer, or, what is yet thinner, your skin; A quart of French brandy, or rum is still better; (For you ne'er in receipts should stick close to the letter :)

Six ounces of fugar next take, and pray mind
The fugar must be the best double refin'd;

Boil

Boil the fugar in near half a pint of spring-water, In the neat filver faucepan you bought for your

daughter;

But be fure that the fyrup you carefully fkim, While the fcum, as 'tis call'd, rifes up to the

brim;

The fourth part of a pint you next must allow Of new milk, made as warm as it comes from the

cow.

Put the rinds of the lemons, the milk and the syrup
With the rum, in a jar, and give 'em a ftir up:
And if you approve it, you may add some perfume;
Goa-stone, or whatever you like in its room.
Let it ftand thus three days,-but remember to
fhake it;

And the closer you ftop it, the richer you make it.
Then filter'd through paper, 'twill sparkle and rife,
Be as foft as your lips, and as bright as your eyes.
Laft, bottle it up; and believe me the vicar
Of E himself ne'er drank better liquor:
In a word, it excells, by a million of odds,
The nectar your fifter presents to the gods.

DPITAPH

EPITAPH

FOR AN INFANT, WHOSE SUPPOSED PARENTS WERE

VAGRANTS.

BY THE REV. MR. O. OF NORTHAMPTONSHIRE.

WHEN

HEN no one gave the cordial draught,
No healing art was found,

My God the fov'reign balfam brought,

And death reliev'd the wound.

What, though no mournful kindred stand,

Around the folemn bier,

No parents wring the trembling hand,
Or drop the tender tear.

No coftly oak, adorn'd with art,

My infant limbs inclose;

No friends a winding fheet impart,

To deck my last repose.

Yet, hear, ye great ones! hear ye

Hear this; ye mighty proud!

A fpotlefs life my coffin is

And innocence my shroud.

this,

My name unknown, obfcure my birth;

No fun'ral rights are giv❜n;

But, though deny'd God's courts on earth,
I tread his courts in heav'n.

A-LA