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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 his 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 quits 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 poetasters,
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.

A SONNET 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;


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PREST by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the general toil of human kind;
With cool submission joins the lab'ring train,
And social sorrow loses half its pain;
Our anxious bard without complaint, may share

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 us, 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 expected of him, and therefore to delineate character has been his principal aim. Those who know 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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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

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 deserving happy.










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. 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

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



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

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

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,

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 however, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme world; that is his fault.

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.

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 Sir William. What signifies his affection to to others should produce so much neglect of himme; or how can I be proud of a place in a heart, self, as to require correction! Yet we must touch where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are entrance? some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we

Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too good-can scarce weed out the vice without eradicating natured; that he's too much every man's man; that the virtue. [Exit. he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Howith another; but whose instructions may he thank neywood. It is not without reason, that the world for all this? allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes

Sir William. Not mine, sure? My letters to his hopeful nephew; the strange, good-natured, 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.


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

Jarvis. You have no friends. Jarvis. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the Honeywood. Well; from my acquaintance then? scullion to the privy-counsellor. If they have a bad Jarvis. [pulling out bills.] A few of our master, they keep quarrelling with him; if they usual cards of compliment, that's all. This bill have a good master, they keep quarrelling with one from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this another. from the little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed.

Honeywood. That I don't know; but I am sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it.

Jarvis. He has lost all patience.

Honeywood. Then he has lost a very good thing. Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor gentleman and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth for a while at least.

Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the meantime? Must I be cruel, because he happens to be importunate; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable distress?

Jarvis. 'Sdeath! sir, the question now is how to relieve yourself; yourself.-Haven't I reason to be out of my senses, when I see things going at sixes and sevens?

Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have for being out of your senses, I hope you'll allow that I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in


Enter BUTLER, drunk.

Butler. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jonathan; you must part with him, or part with me, that's the ex-ex-exposition of the matter, sir. Honeywood. Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault, good Philip?

Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I shall have my morals corrupted by keeping such company.

Honeywood. Ha! ha! he has such a diverting way

Jarvis. O, quite amusing.

Butler. I find my wine's a-going, sir; and liquors don't go without mouths, sir; I hate a drunkard, sir.

Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon that another time; so go to bed now.

Jarvis. To bed! let him go to the devil. Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and beg ging your pardon, Master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you. Honeywood. Why didn't you show him up,

sir. Up or down, all's one to me.

Jarvis. You are the only man alive in your pre-blockhead? sent situation that could do so.-Every thing upon Butler. Show him up, sir! With all my heart, the waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine fortune gone already, and upon the point of being given to your rival.

Honeywood. I'm no man's rival.

Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you; your own fortune almost spent ; and nothing but pressing creditors, false friends, and a pack of drunken servants that your kindness has made unfit for any other family.


Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house from morning till night. He comes on the old affair, I suppose. The match between his son that's just returned from Paris, and Miss Richland, the young lady he's guardian to.

Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker knowing my friendship for the young lady, has got it into his head that I can persuade her to what I

Honeytrood. Then they have the more occasion please. for being in mine.

Jarris. Soh! What will you have done with him that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry? In the fact; I caught him in the fact.

Honeywood. In the fact? If so, I really think that we should pay him his wages, and turn him off.

Jarvis. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog; we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the family.

Honeywood. No, Jarvis; it's enough that we have lost what he has stolen; let us not add to it the loss of a fellow creature!

Jarvis. Very fine! well, here was the footman just now, to complain of the butler: he says he does most work, and ought to have most wages. Honeywood. That's but just; though perhaps here comes the butler to complain of the footman.

Jarvis. Ah! if you loved yourself but half as well as she loves you, we should soon see a marriage that would set all things to rights again.

Honeywood. Love me! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, no; her intimacy with me never amounted to more than friendship-mere friendship. That she is the most lovely woman that ever warmed the human heart with desire, I own. But never let me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by a connexion with one so unworthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her, even in spite of my wishes; and to secure her happiness, though it destroys my own.

Jarvis. Was ever the like? I want patience.

Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wife; who, though both very fine in their way, are

are yet a little opposite in their dispositions, you Richland and my son much relished, either by one know. side or t' other.

Jarvis. Opposite enough, Heaven knows! the very reverse of each other: she, all laugh and no joke; he always complaining and never sorrowful; a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in the four-and-twenty

Honeywood, Hush, hush, he's coming up, he'll hear you.

Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing-bell-
Honeywood. Well, well; go, do.

Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; a coffin and cross bones; a bundle of rue; a sprig of deadly night-shade; a— [Honeywood stopping

his mouth, at last pushes him off.


Honeywood. I must own my old monitor is not entirely wrong. There is something in my friend Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me. His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than an undertaker's shop.-Mr. Croaker, this is such a satisfaction


Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of them. How is this! you look most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weather does not affect your spirits. To be sure, if this weather continues-I say nothingBut God send we be all better this day three months. Honeywood. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I own, not in your apprehensions.

Honeywood. I thought otherwise.

Croaker. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine serious advice to the young lady might go far: I know she has a very exalted opinion of your understanding.

Honeywood. But would not that be usurping an authority that more properly belongs to yourself?

Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my authority at home. People think, indeed, because they see me come out in a morning thus, with a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that all's well within. But I have cares that would break a heart of stone. My wife has so encroached upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in my own house.

Honeywood. But a little spirit exerted on your side might perhaps restore your authority.


Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion! do rouse sometimes. But what then? always haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting the better before his wife is tired of losing the victory.

Honeywood. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our chief comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes.

Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a week before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in Croaker. May-be not. Indeed what signifies mind of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected what weather we have in a country going to ruin for you! and so true a friend! we loved each other like ours? taxes rising and trade falling. Money for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming him a single farthing. into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred

Honeywood. Pray what could induce him to com

and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing-cross mit so rash an action at last?

and Temple-bar.

Croaker. I don't know: some people were ma

Honeywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert licious enough to say it was keeping company with you or me, I should hope.

Croaker. May-be not. Indeed, what signifies whom they pervert in a country that has scarce any religion to lose! I'm only afraid for our wives and daughters.

Honeywood. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you.

me; because we used to meet now and then and
open our hearts to each other. To be sure I loved
to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk;
poor dear Dick. He used to say that Croaker rhymed
to joker; and so we used to laugh-Poor Dick.
[Going to cry.

Honeywood. His fate affects me.
Croaker. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life,
where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry.
dress and undress, get up and lie down; while rea-
son, that should watch like a nurse by our side,
falls as fast asleep as we do:

Croaker. May-be not. Indeed, what signifies whether they be perverted or no? the women in my time were good for something. I have seen a lady drest from top to toe in her own manufactures formerly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own manufacture's about them, except their faces. Honeywood. But, however these faults may be practised abroad, you don't find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland? Croaker. Life at the greatest and best is but a Croaker. The best of them will never be canon-froward child, that must be humoured and coaxed ized for a saint when she's dead. By the by, my a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is dear friend, I don't find this match between Miss is over.

Honeywood. To say truth, if we compare that part of life which is to come, by that which we have past, the prospect is hideous.

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