Insensible and free: Love's balmy blessing would you try, No longer sport a Butterfly, But imitate the Bee. VERSES DROPT IN MR. GARRICK'S TEMPLE OF SHAKE- WHILE here to Shakespeare' Garrick pays Preferr'd the pray'r-the marble god Murder'd my scenes, scarce known my name; Among the common, scribbling race, Each side, again, with laughter shake, While thus the grateful statue speaks, A blush o'erspreads the suppliant's checks— "What!Half this wreath, wit's mighty chief? O grant," he cries, "one single leaf; Phoebus the gen'rous contest heard- CUPID BAFffled. DIANA, hunting on a day, One of his darts she stole away, Into the other's stead. When next the archer through the grove, And Cupid's pow'r defy'd. The statue of Shakespeare, in the temple de dicated to the bard by Mr. Garrick, in his delightful garden at Hampton, was the work of that able and ingenious master, Roubiliac. Soon as he ey'd the rebel maid; Full to the head the shaft he drew; Exulting, then the fair-one cry'd, DEATH AND THE DOCTOR. 'TWIXT Death and Schomberg, t'other day, A contestdid arise; Death swore his prize he'd bear away; Enrag'd to hear his pow'r defy'd, Death drew his keenest dart; AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. POWELL, AT THE OPENING OF THE As when the merchant, to increase his store, Spite of these terrours,still some hopes we view, Hopes ne'er can fail us-since they're plac'd -in you, Your breath the gale, our voyage is secure, ceed, Where candour takes th' endeavour for the deed. For Brentford's state two kings could once suf fice; In our's, behold! four kings of Brentford rise; But should we ever tyrants prove-dethrone us. Like brother monarchs, who to coax the nation, Began their reign with some fair proclamation, We too should talk at least-of reformation; But then the play must have some wit, some spirit, And we allow'd sole umpires of its merit. For those deep sages of the judging pit, Whose taste is too refin'd for modern wit, From Rome's great theatre we'll cull the piece, And plant, ou Britain's stage, the flow'rs of Greece. If some there are our British bards can Who taste the ancient wit of ancient days, For you, ye fair, who sprightlier scenes may Where music decks in all her airs the Muse, To greet their mortal brethren of our skies, By sages, no bad epilogues to plays. If terms like these your suffrage can engage, To fix our mimic empire of the stage; Confirm our title in your fair opinions, And croud each night to people our dominions. VERSES ON CONVERTING THE CHAPEL TO A KITCHEN, AT THE SEAT OF THE LORD DONNERAYLE, CALLED THE GROVE, IN HERTFORDSHIRE. For a Jew many people the master mistook, Whose Levites were scullions, his high-priest a cook; And thought he design'd our religion to alter, When they saw the burnt-offering smoke at the altar. The bell's solemn sound, that was heard far and By Ovid, among other wonders, we're told What chanc'd to Philemon and Baucis of old; How their cot to a temple was conjur'd by Jove, So a chapel was chang'd to a kitchen at Grove. The lord of the mansion most rightly conceiting, His guests lov'd good prayers much less than good eating; Lye, And possess'd by the devil, as some folks will tell What was meant for the soul, he assign'd to the belly. The word was scarce giv'n-when down dropp'd the clock, near, And oft rous'd the chaplain unwilling to pray'r, No more to good sermons now summons the sin And straight was seen fix'd in the form of a jack; And, shameful to tell! pulpit, benches, and pews, Form'd cupboards and shelves for plates, saucepans, aud stews. ner, But blasphemous rings in the country to dinner. When my good lord the bishop had heard the strange story, [G-'s glory; How the place was profan'd, that was built to Full of zeal he cried out, "Oh, how impious the deed, Pray'r-books turn'd into platters; nor think it a fable, A dresser sprung out of the communion table; Which, instead of the usual repast, bread and wine, To cram Christians with pudding, instead of the "Is stor❜d with rich soups, and good English sirloin. No fire, but what pure devotion could raise, "Till now, had been known in this temple to blaze: But, good lord! how the neighbours around did admire, When a chimney rose up in the room of a spire! creed!" Then away to the Grove hied the church's protector, Resolving to give his lay-brother a lecture; But he scarce had begun, when he saw, plac'd before 'em, A haunch piping hot from the Sanctum Sanclo VERSES INSCRIBED ON A MONUMENT CALLED THE TOMB Way, busy boys, why thus entwine For Care's decease-is Pleasure's birth. THE EPITAPH (IN LETTERS OF BRASS, INSERTED BY A FEMALE BRITON, behold, if patriot worth be dear, P. WHITEHEAD. The muse unfetter'd trod the Grecian stage; Or Liberty the Attic audience warm. Then fled the muse, indignant from the shore, Nor deign'd to dwell where Freedom was no more: Vain then, alas! she sought Britannia's iste, Charm'd with her voice, and cheer'd us with a smile. If Gallic laws her gen'rous flight restrain, name, Shakespeare's no more!-lost was the poet's [fame; Till thou, my friend, my genius, sprung ta Lur'd by his laurel's never-fading bloom, You boldly snatch'd the trophy from his tomb, Taught the declining muse again to soar, And to Britannia give one poet more. Pleas'd in thy lays we see Gustavus live; But, O Gustavus! if thou can'st, forgive Britons, more savage than the tyrant Dane, Beneath whose yoke you drew the galling chain, Degen'rate Briton's, by thy worth dismay'd, Prophane thy glories, and proscribe thy shade, TO MR. BROOKE, ON THE REFUSAL OF A LICENCE TO HIS PLAY OF GUSTAVUS VASA. How languid my strains, and how tuneless my lyre! Go, Zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear, [view: First published in the Gentleman's Magazine, Still something presents the fair nymph to my 1739. If I traverse the garden, the garden still shows But with her neither lily nor rose can compare; The nightingale too, with impertinent noise, Pours forth her sweet strains in my syren's sweet voice: [brings; Thus the grove and its music her image still For, like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale sings. If, forsaking the groves, I fly to the court, If to books I retire, to drown my fond pain, |