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That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall 1 make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em;

If gems, or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them—when I get 'em.

I'll give but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion:
Such short-lived offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere, than civil:
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle PARNELL's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame,
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry
way!

Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.,
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below.
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking:

Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've got

my cue;

The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you,

you, you.

[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and close beside 'em,
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore:
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure:
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing-but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round
parade,

Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid? [Mimicking.

Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume,
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems, to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man in
black!

Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone!
Well then a truce, since she requests it too :
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

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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.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one vu 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.

MISS CATLEY.
Air-Ballinamony.

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.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?

MISS CATLEY.

And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

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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.

MISS CATLEY.

Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed!

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY,

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BULKLEY.

And now with late repentance,

Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.

AN EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.

[Exeunt

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:

Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the At least in many things, I think, I see

Tweed.

His lunar, and our mimic world agree.

1

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,
How 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.*

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON;

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
help regretting

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.

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 hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pro

nounce,

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.

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
alone

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-
ter'd;

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?"

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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;

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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 tail, 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,

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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 dinert 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.

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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.

l'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'slill 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.

↑ 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 dis tinguished 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.

tt David Garrick. Esq. #Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.

$$ Sir Joshua Reynolds.
II An eminent attorney.

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