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 "Damme 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 come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all 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.
WELL, having Stooped to Conquer with success,
And gained a husband without aid from dress,
Still as a barmaid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquered him, to conquer you :
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty barmaids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, composed to please,
'We have our exits and our entrances.'
The First Act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid;
Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action,
'I hope as how to give you satisfaction.'
Her Second Act displays a livelier scene-
Th' unblushing barmaid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars.
The chophouse toasts of ogling connoisseurs.
On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts:
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
Even common-councilmen forget to eat.
The Fourth Act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride,
Swims round the room the Heinelle of Cheapside;
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
'Till having lost in
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at Spadille.
Such, through our lives, the eventful history-
The Fifth and Last Act still remains for me.
The barmaid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.
LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH,
INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF APRIL 3, 1800.
E'EN have you seen, bathed in the morning dew;
The budding rose its infant bloom display;
When first its virgin tints unfold to view,
It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day :
So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,
Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek; I gazed, I sighed, I caught the tender flame,
Felt the fond pang, and drooped with passion weak.
ON SEEING MRS. * * PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER OF ****
FOR you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all commanding shine;
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.
She speaks! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to this,
As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
With fond complaint addressed the listening Jove.
'Twas joy and endless blisses all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.
'Twas you, or I, or he, or all together,
'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether; This, I believe, between us great and small,
You, I, he, wrote it not-'twas Churchill's all.
DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. * * *
YE muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatched away;
Oh! had he lived another year!
He had not died to-day.
Oh! were he born to bless mankind
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind
Whene'er he went before.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep;
Even pitying hills would drop a tear
If hills could learn to weep.
His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard might well display ;
Since none implored relief in vain
That went relieved away.
And hark! I hear the tuneful throng
His obsequies forbid,
He still shall live, shall live as long
As ever dead man did.
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