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Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"*
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman
hasty,

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
dumb,

come;

"For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale;

"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
her?

That she came with some terrible news from the
baker:

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 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 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

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 spinage, and pudding made

hot;

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
rogue,

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
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."

See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness, Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.-12mo, 1759

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, th' 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;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses."
Edinburgh, 1753.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*

RETALIATION;

A POEM.

[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.]

HERE lies poor NED PURDON, from misery freed, Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,

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.

AN ELEGY

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.

I'his 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.

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 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 sa-

vour;

Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall
obtain,

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 Ridge is anchovy, and Reynoldsss is lamb;
That Hickey's 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.

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 forge ries) 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.

II 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
such,

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
throat

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,

To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,

vote:

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, 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
mint,

While the owner ne'er knew half the good that
was in't;

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
his own.

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks;
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines.
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant
reclines:

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
lecture;

Macphersont write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com.
pile:

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
over,

No countryman living their tricks to discover
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,

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;

sigh at;

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,

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

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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 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.

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.

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JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE.

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
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;
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.

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.

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.

He has not left a wiser or better behind;
Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
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.

POSTSCRIPT.

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 ; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will; 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 loss) Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.ll

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

† Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 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.

§ Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. I Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with by morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I ad-| There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen

mit

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

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

SONG:

'em

[Pit.

Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em [Balconies Here ill-condition'd oranges abound

[Stage

And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:
[Tasting them.
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF O, there the people are-best keep my distance:

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.*

AH 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.

Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;
Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid
her,

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 far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What, no reply to promises so ample?

I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF
HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT

sense:

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.

IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explore HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non-
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, Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading-Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
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.
*SIR-I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold.
smith, which has never been published, and which might per-
haps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended
It as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admi-
"able comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out,
as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung
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
tha. was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his
own hand-writing, with an affectionate care.

I am, Sir, your humble servant,
JAMES BOSWELL.

In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
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!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
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!--
soft-'twas but a dream.

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

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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