Thrale and you took me up. I intend, however, to disappoint the rogues,
and either make you write the life, with Taylor's intelligence, or, which
is better, do it myself, after outliving you all. I am now," added he,
"keeping a diary, in hopes of using it for that purpose some time." Here
the conversation stopped, from my accidentally looking in an old magazine
of the year 1768, where I saw the following lines with his name to them,
and asked if they were his:--


Verses said to be written by Dr. Samuel Johnson, at the request of a
gentleman to whom a lady had given a sprig of myrtle.
"What hopes, what terrors, does thy gift create,
Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate;
The myrtle, ensign of supreme command,
Consigned by Venus to Melissa's hand:
Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
Now grants, and now rejects a lover's prayer.
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain:
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads,
The unhappy lover's grave the myrtle spreads:
Oh, then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart!
Soon must this bough, as you shall fix his doom,
Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb."

"Why, now, do but see how the world is gaping for a wonder!" cries Mr.
Johnson. "I think it is now just forty years ago that a young fellow had a
sprig of myrtle given him by a girl he courted, and asked me to write him
some verses that he might present her in return. I promised, but forgot;