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Thus foild in my courage, on all sides perplext,
I ask for advice from the lady that's next.
Pray, ma'am, be so good as to give your advice;
Don't you think the best way is to venture for't twice?
I advise, cries the lady, to try it, I own;
Ah! the Doctor is loo'd. Come, Doctor, put down.
Thus playing and playing, I still grow more eager;
And so bold and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar.
Now, ladies, I ask if law matters you're skill'd in,
Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Field-
For giving advice that is not worth a straw
May well be call’d picking of pockets in law;
And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye,
Is, by Quinto Elizabeth, death without clergy.
| What justice, when both to the Old Bailey brought !
By the gods, I'll enjoy it, though 'tis but in thought!
Both are plac'd at the bar with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel and nosegays before 'em;
Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,
But the judge bids them, angrily, take off their liat.
When uncover'd, a buzz of inquiry goes round,
Pray what are their crimes? They've been pilfering found.
But, pray, whom have they pilfer'd? A doctor, I hear;
What, yon solemn-fac’d, odd-looking man that stands near?
What a pity! How does it surprise one!
Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on!
Then their friends all come round me with cringing and leer-
To melt me to pity and soften my swearing.
First Sir Charles advances, with phrases well strung-
Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young.
The younger the worse, I return him again;
It shows that their habits are all died in grain.
But then they're so handsome, one's bosom it grieves:
What signifies handsome, when people are thieves !
But where is your justice? Their cases are hard.
What signifies justice? I want the reward.
There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds. There's the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pounds. There's the parish of Tyburn, from the Hog in the Pound to St. Giles's Watch-house, offers forty pounds. I shall have all that if I convict them.
But consider their case, it may yet be your own;
And see how they kneel; is your heart made of stone?
This moves; so, at last, I agree to relent,
For ten pounds in hand and ten pounds to be spent.
I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot. It cuts deep; but now for the rest of the letter; and nextbut I want room. So I believe I shall battle the rest ont at Barton some day next week. I don't value you all.
"SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." I
Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtesies very low as beginning to speak ; then enter
Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtesies to the audience.
Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?
Yes, the cpilogue, my dear.
First printed in “Miscellaneous Works," 1801. A copy of this epilogue, in Goldsmith's handwriting, given to the late Dr. Farr, his fellow-student at Edinburgh, remains, it is said, in the family of that gentleman.
Sure you mistake, ma'am. The epilogue? I bring it.
Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it.
Ye beaux and belles that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.
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.
Miss Catley. What if we leave it to the house?
The house! Agreed.
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, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.
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.
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 must 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 travellid 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 Heinel.
Ay, take your travellers--travellers indeed!
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
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 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!
Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ?
And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the epilogue unspoken?
And now with late repentance,
Un-epilogued the poet waits bis sentence.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery—though he starves by wit.