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

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

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

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
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.‡

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant

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.

*Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, etc. etc.

↑ Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some mea

sure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith in

respect to that gentleman.


Here Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay-I will make an odd fellow!
Right and wrong shall be jumbled,—much gold and some

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;
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 poet;
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals-be Goldsmith his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him—to make us sport here.




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.

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His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
Still born to improve us in every part,
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard
of hearing:

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios,

and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.


After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill:
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so liberal 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 Woodfalls 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

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Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I ad


That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said


This debt to thy mem'ry I can not refuse,
"Thou best humour'd man with the worst hu-
mour'd Muse."


There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen
Here trees of stately size--and billing turtles in 'em
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound-




And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:
[Tasting hem

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!


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

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF O, there the people are-best keep my distance:
Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;
Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid

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.

His honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure, lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from



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;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading-
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What, no reply to promises so ample?
I'd best step back-and order up a sample.



HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non


I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
[Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.

To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood

This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:
[Upper Gallery.

Of fools pursuing, and of foole pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses ;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities;
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!

•SIR-I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold smith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended

it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admi-No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage: Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.

"able comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out,

as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:
Give me another horse! bind up my wounds !--

it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a
pretty Irish air, called "The Humours of Balamagairy," to
which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words;
but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I
could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to
give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London,
and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending
that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his
own hand-writing, with an affectionate care.

soft-'twas but a dream.

I am, Sir, your humble servant,

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreat


If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that Esop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,

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Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood. "The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick


They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye, how sleek that brow!
My horns!-I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to is view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen


Hoicks! hark forward! came thund'ring from behind,

He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quis the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length, his silly head, so prized before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself, like me.
[Taking a jump through the stage door.


LOGICIANS have but ill defined
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,

Homo est ratione præditum ;
But for my soul I can not credit 'em;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide,
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go,
To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Pater-Noster Row;

No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, No pickpockets or poctasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds, No single brute his fellow leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray Nor cut each other's throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confest, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape: Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion; But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him humbly cringing wait Upon the minister of state; View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors: He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators: At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their masters' manners still contract, And footmen, lords, and dukes can act. Thus at the court, both great and small Behave alike, for all ape all



AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure


O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.



SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.


WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection? Or dim thy beauty with a tear? Had Myra follow'd my direction,

She long had wanted cause of fear.


A Comedy;




PREST by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human kind;

WHEN I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of the last age, and strove to imitate them. The term, genteel comedy, was then unknown amongst as, and little more was desired by an audience, than nature and humour, in whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous. The author of the following scenes never imagined that more would be With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, expected of him, and therefore to delineate charac-And social sorrow loses half its pain; ter has been his principal aim. Those who know Our anxious bard without complaint, may share any thing of composition, are sensible that, in pur-This bustling season's epidemic care, suing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the Like Cæsar's pilot, dignified by fate, recesses of the mean; I was even tempted to look Tost in one common storm with all the great; for it in the master of a spunging-house; but in Distrest alike, the statesman and the wit, deference to the public taste, grown of late, per- When one a borough courts, and one the pit. haps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was re- The busy candidates for power and fame trenched in the representation. In deference also Have hopes and fears, and wishes, just the same; to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a Disabled both to combat or to fly, particular way, the scene is here restored. The Must bear all taunts, and hear without reply. author submits it to the reader in his closet; and Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, hopes that too much refinement will not banish hu- As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. mour and character from ours, as it has already Th' offended burgess holds his angry tale, done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French For that blest year when all that vote may rail; comedy is now become so very elevated and senti- Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, mental, that it has not only banished humour and Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss. Moliere from the stage, but it has banished all "This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," spectators too. Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote." "This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet-I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe; The bard may supplicate, but can not bribe. Yet judged by those, whose voices ne'er were sold, He feels no want of ill-persuading gold; But confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts, without fear, to merit, and to you

Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the public for the favourable reception which "The Good-Natured Man" has met with; and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any, who shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection.







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MR. WOODWARD. his philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his



good-nature arises rather from his fears of offending
the importunate, than his desire of making the de-
serving happy.






Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best excuse for every freedom.

Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as your nephew, my master. All the world loves him.

Sir William. Say rather, that he loves all the world; that is his fault.

has only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name on't, I'm always sure he's going to play the fool.

Sir William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to



SCENE-AN APARTMENT IN YOUNG HONEYWOOD's plunged himself into real calamity: to arrest him for


that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see which of his friends will come to his relief.

Jarvis. I am sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, though he has not seen you since he was a child.

Sir William. What signifies his affection to me; or how can I be proud of a place in a heart, where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy entrance?

Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too goodnatured; that he's too much every man's inan; that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next with another; but whose instructions may he thank for all this?

Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know. But to be sure, every body has it, that asks it.

Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation.

Jarvis. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to me; yet faith, I believe it impossible. I have tried to fret him myself every morning these three years; but instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hair-dresser.

Sir William. We must try him once more, however, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme into execution: and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by your means, I can have frequent opportunities of being about him without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good-will to others should produce so much neglect of himself, as to require correction! Yet we must touch his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vice without eradicating the virtue. [Exit. Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not without reason, that the world allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes his hopeful nephew; the strange, good-natured,

Sir William. Not mine, sure? My letters to him during my employment in Italy, taught him foolish, open-hearted-And yet, all his faults are only that philosophy which might prevent, not de- such that one loves him still the better for them. fend his errors. Enter HONEYWOOD.

Jarvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them all. He calls his extravagance, generosity; and his trusting every body, universal benevolence. It was but last week he went security for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted mu-mu-munificence; ay, that was the name he gave it.

Sir William. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I have taken up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has

Jarvis. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages tin I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all; it my friends this morning?

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