« ПретходнаНастави »
Mrs. Bulkley. Ye Gamesters, who so eager in pursuit, Make but of all your fortune one va Toate : Ye Jockey tribe whose stock of words are few, 5. 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 called 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,
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.
Miss Catley. Agreed.
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.
INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things :
Lost human wits have places there assigned 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 :
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.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fis,
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 scattered 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 Ballct and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wits 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 6 Dam'me, Sir,” and “ Sir, I wear a sword ;''
Here lessoned 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.*
* This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy, (now Bishop of Dromore;) but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.
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
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating ; [regretting,
I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu;
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.
But hold-let me pause--don't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ;
Well suppose it a bounce--sure a poet inay 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 stauuch,
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 a 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, (when.
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the
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's 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 1 debated, in reverie centered, [tered;
An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, en-
An under-bred, tine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me.
" What have we got here ?-Why this is good eating!
Your own I suppose or is it in waiting ?”
“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.”
" It' that be the case then," cried he very gay, “I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-inorrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words I insist on't-precisely at three : [there ; We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be My acquaintance is sligbt, or I'd ask my lord Clare,