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UPON

MR. MASON's

TAKING ORDERS.

BY MR. GARRICK.

To Holdernesse, the Muses three,
Of Painting, Music, Poetry,

To him, their long-lov'd patron, friend,
In grievous pet this letter send-

Give ear, my Lord, while we complain,
Our sex to you ne'er sigh'd in vain.
'Tis said—A youth by you befriended,
Whom to your smiles we recommended;
Seduc'd by you, abjures our charms,
And flies for ever from our arms!
Could D'Arcy, whom we lov'd, caress'd,
In whose protection we were bless'd,
Could he, to whom our Sire imparts
That secret rare to taste our arts,
Could he, ungrateful, and unkind!
From us estrange our Mason's mind?

Could he, who serves and loves the nation,
So little weigh its reputation,

As in this scarcity of merit,

To damp with grace poetic spirit:
But be assur'd your scheme is vain-
He must, he shall be ours again :

Nor crape nor lawn shall quench his fires,
We'll fill his breast with new desires;
In vain you plead his ordination,

His cassock, gown, and grave vocation,
Whate'er he now has sworn, he swore,
With stronger zeal to us before:
He pass'd our forms of consecration,
His lips receiv'd our inspiration;
To him were all our rites reveal'd,
From him no myst'ry was conceal'd-
Each kindred pow'r obey'd our call,
And grac'd the solemn festival!

The Loves forsook their Cyprian bow'rs,

And round his temples wreath'd their flow'rs;

The Graces danc'd their mystic maze,

Our Father struck him with his rays;
And all our Sisters one by one,

Gave him full draughts of Helicon !
Thus bound our servant at the shrine,

Ordain'd he was, and made divine.

то

MR. GARRICK,

ON MEETING HIM AT MR. RIGBY's.

BY

CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY, ESQ.

THROUGH ev'ry part, of grief or mirth,
To which the mimic stage gives birth,
I ne'er as yet, with truth could tell,
Where most your various pow'rs excel.
Sometimes amidst the laughing scene,
Blithe Comedy, with jocund mien,
By you in livelier colors drest,

With transport clasp'd you to her breast:
As oft the buskin'd Muse appear'd,
With awful brow her sceptre rear'd;
Recounted all your laurels won,
And claim'd you for her darling son.
Thus each contending goddess strove,
And each the fairest garland wove.

But which fair Nymph could justly boast
Her beauties had engag'd you most,
I doubted much; 'till, t'other day,
Kind Fortune threw me in your way;
Where, 'midst the friendly joys that wait
Philander's hospitable gate,

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

'Twas there with keen, tho' polish'd, jest, You sat, a pleas'd and pleasing guest; With social ease a part sustain'd,

More humorous 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;
In mimic characters alone

Let others shine-but Garrick in his own."

MR. GARRICK's

ANSWER.

As late at Comus' court I sat,
(Observe me well, I mean not that
Where ribaldry in triumph sits,
Delighting lords, and 'squires, and cits ;
But there, where mirth and taste combine,
And Rigby gives more wit than wine)
Suspended for a while the joke,

With rapture of your muse we spoke ;
But all blam'd me, cry'd out, oh! fye!
What send to verse a prose reply ?
My friend, the Colonel, made the attack,
And wicked Calvert clapp'd his back.
Nay, Pottinger, tho' low in feather,
And somewhat ruffled by the weather,
Would peck and crow; and Madam Hale
Flew at my manners tooth and nail.
What! send to Anstey such dull stuff?
'Twas modesty, dear Hale; don't huff.
Cou'd I but rhyme as much as you,
And think that much as charming too,

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