But hang it to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie centred,

An acquaintance, a friend, as he called himself, enter'd;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and

me.

"What have we got here?-Why this is good eating!

Your own, I suppose-or is it in waiting?" "Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce,

"I get these things often "--but that was a bounce;

"Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,

Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation."

"If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way, To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words-I insist on't-precisely at three; We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there;

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.

And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you-a pasty? it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter-this venison with me to Mileend:

No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"

Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,

And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,

And “nobody with me at sea but myself;"* Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman

My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would

not come;

“For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,

The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale;

But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party

With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.

The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They both of them merry, and authors like you: The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;

Some thinks he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge:"

While thus he described them by trade and by

name,

They enter'd, and dinner was served as they

came.

At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinnage, and pudding made hot;

In the middle a place where the pasty was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most was that dScottish rogue,

With

'd

his long-winded specches, his smiles, and his brogue,

And "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,

A

prettier dinner I never set eyes on:

Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,

But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst."

"The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,

"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week :

I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."

"O-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice,

He's keeping a corner for something that's nice; There's a pasty"-" A pasty!" repeated the Jew, "I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot,

"Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."

We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid :

A visage so sad, and so paie with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

the baker:

And it so fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philome! thus-but let similes dropAnd now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplaced

To send such good verses to one of your taste; You've got an odd something-a kind of

discerning,

A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your

graces,

asses.

Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll wish to come back.

FROM THE

ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.

SONG.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on hope relies;
And every pang that rends the heart,
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

SONG.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

THE

CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears; "An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters,

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
Mas MARY BLAIZE.
GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-

Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has follow'd herWhen she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth moreShe had not died to-day.

This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he inlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the Newspapers. He translated Voltaire's HENRIADE

RETALIATION;

A POEM.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV, AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St James's CoffeeHouse. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for RETALIATION, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.

Or old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish and the feast was united;

If our landlord' supplies us with beef, and with fish,

Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:

Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;

Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains :

Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,

And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour:

1 The master of the St James's Coffee-house, where the Doctor and the friends he has characterised in this poem, occasionally dined.

2 Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. 3 The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

4 Mr William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin.

5 Mr Richard Burke, collector of Granada.

6 Mr Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and various other productions. *

7 Dr Douglas, canon of Windsor, (now bishop of Salisbury) an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,

And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining:

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, dis

were his own.

8 David Garrick, Esq.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ;

the Irish bar.

10 Sir Joshua Reynolds.

11 An eminent attorney.

Christ."

Since this note was written, of "Calvary, or the Death of

1 Mr T. Townshend, member for Whitechurch

Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,

The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a-day: Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick

If they were not his own by finessing and trick: He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what

came,

And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so
grave,

5

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his
skill,

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above."

7 The following poems by Mr Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr Goldsmith in respect to that gentleman.

JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE.
Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay-1 will make an odd fellow!
Right and wrong shall be jumbled,-much gold and some dross;
Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,

A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking,
Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste i
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail;
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and port,
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals-he GOLUSMITH his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him to make us sport here.

H

1

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,

And slander itself must allow him good-nature; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper,

Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.

Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer no, no, for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and
burn ye,

He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,

He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
Still born to improve us in every part,

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confined! Who perhaps to the summit of science could

soar,

Yet content "if the table he set in a roar ;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfall confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!

Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the
press.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit

That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit.

This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd Muse."

ON DR GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL COOKERY.
A JEU D'ESPRIT.

Are these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Is this the great poet whose works so content us?
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books?
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.

1 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

2 Mr Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

3 Mr W was so notorious a punster, that Dr Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.

SONG:

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY
OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”

Ан me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE;

A TRAGEDY.

WRITTEN BY

JOSEPH CRADDOCK, Esq.

ACTED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN,

MDCCLXXII.

SPOKEN BY MR QUICK.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore

The distant climates and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;

4 Mr H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

5 Mr Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public