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Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing,
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning
Besides, a singer in a comic set-
Excuse me, ma'am, I know the etiquette.
What if we leave it to the house?
And she whose party's largest shall proceed.
And first, I hope you'll readily agree
I've all the critics and the wits for me;
They, I am sure, will answer my commands:
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands.
What! no return? I find too late, 1 fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.
MISS CATLEY. I'm for a different set.-Old men whose trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling.
Air-Cotillen. Turn my fairest, turn, if ever Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye, Pity take on your swain so clever, Who without your aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, Yes, I shall die, ho, ho, ho, ho,
Let all the old pay homage to your merit;
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train,
Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain,
Who take a trip to Paris once a year
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here;
Lend me your hands.-O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.
Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.
Air-A bonny young lad is my Jockey.
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay,
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one va toute:
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
"I hold the odds.—Done, done, with you, with you."
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,
"My lord,—Your lordship misconceives the case.”
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner,
"I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner!"
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty,
Come end the contest here, and aid my party.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back.
For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,
And death is your only preventive:
Your hands and your voices for me.
THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things:
Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he ;—but I affirm, the Stage:
Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed!
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the At least in many things, I think, I see His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses;
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stored,
As "Dam'me, sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here comes the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,
Flow can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment:-the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone:—and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.*
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter.
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (late Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:
But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff,
I think they love venison-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman, Higgins-Oh! let him
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But hang it-to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton is 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 call'd himself, en-
An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd 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
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 Mile-ena.
No stirring-I beg-my dear friend—my dea
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables followed behind.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"*
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman
Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife,
So next day in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine,
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite
"For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale;
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And 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 own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this
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're both of them merry, and authors like you:
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge."
While thus he described them by trade and by
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 spinage, and pudding made
In the middle a place were 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 dd Scottish
With his long-winded speeches, 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
"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
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-echoed the Scot,
"Though 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 echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid:
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake
See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness, Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.-12mo, 1759
That she came with some terrible news from the
'An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses."
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*
HERE lies poor NED PURDON, from misery freed, Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. 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 her,—
When 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 more,-
She had not died to-day.
This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted 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.
[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-house.-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.]
If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish;
Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains;
Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour;
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick'stt a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridgett is anchovy, and Reynolds§§ is lamb;
That Hickey'still a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined.
1 Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland.
The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
§ Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin.
I Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada.
Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of "The West Indian." "Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other productions.
**Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.
it David Garrick. Esq.
#Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.
$$ Sir Joshua Reynolds.
I! An eminent attorney.
Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth :
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund,† whose genius was
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refin
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks; dining: Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyram reclines:
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, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feeling, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own;
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet?
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must 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;
That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned 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
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall
Macpherson‡ write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com-
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
No countryman living their tricks to discover
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
↑ The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
Mr. William Burke.
The Rev. Dr. Dodd.
Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under
Mr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different the title of "The School of Shakspeare." times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.