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Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- And shuddering still to face the distant deep,


Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire, the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself in conscious virtue brave,
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowns the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare,
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts?-Ah, turn thine And left a lover's for her father's arms.


Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
While her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,

And pinched with cold, and shrinking from the How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!


With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!

Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,

Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charmed before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
'Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies,
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.

How do thy potions with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own;

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

E'en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land,
Down where yon anchoring vessels spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in those degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride.
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that part- Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
ing day

That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid, slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain,
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;

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.



Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I 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.


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

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.

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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

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;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
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

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.





WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser? Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtesies very low as beginning

Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.

to speak. Then enter Miss Calley, who stands full before her, and courtesies to the Audience.

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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.


Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed!

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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.



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


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.
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.*




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


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

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, enter'd;

An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he,

And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and mc. "What have we got here?-Why this is good


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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

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;

"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

That she came with some terrible news from the

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

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

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."

See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness, Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.-12mo, 1769.



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.


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;

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