PART II.

_Overture._--_Pastorale._

MAN _Speaker_.

Fast by that shore where Thames’ translucent stream Reflects new glories on his breast, Where, splendid as the youthful poet’s dream, He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest-- Where sculptur’d elegance and native grace Unite to stamp the beauties of the place, While sweetly blending still are seen The wavy lawn, the sloping green-- While novelty, with cautious cunning, Through every maze of fancy running, From China borrows aid to deck the scene-- There, sorrowing by the river’s glassy bed, Forlorn, a rural band complain’d, All whom Augusta’s bounty fed, All whom her clemency sustain’d; The good old sire, unconscious of decay, The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey, The military boy, the orphan’d maid, The shatter’d veteran, now first dismay’d: These sadly join beside the murmuring deep; And, as they view The towers of Kew, Call on their Mistress--now no more--and weep.

_Chorus._

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes-- Let all your echoes now deplore, That she who form’d your beauties is no more!

MAN _Speaker._

First of the train, the patient rustic came, Whose callous hand had form’d the scene, Bending at once with sorrow and with age, With many a tear and many a sigh between;

“And where,” he cried, “shall now my babes have bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire? No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, Nor can my strength perform what they require; Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare-- A sleek and idle race is all their care. My noble Mistress thought not so: Her bounty, like the morning dew, Unseen, though constant, us’d to flow; And as my strength decay’d, her bounty grew.”

WOMAN _Speaker_.

In decent dress, and coarsely clean, The pious matron next was seen-- Clasp’d in her hand a godly book was borne, By use and daily meditation worn; That decent dress, this holy guide, Augusta’s care had well supplied. “And, ah!” she cries, all woe-begone, “What now remains for me? Oh! where shall weeping want repair, To ask for charity? Too late in life for me to ask, And shame prevents the deed; And tardy, tardy are the times To succour, should I need. But all my wants, before I spoke, Were to my Mistress known; She still reliev’d, nor sought for praise, Contented with her own. But every day her name I’ll bless-- My morning prayer, my evening song; I’ll praise her while my life shall last, A life that cannot last me long.”

_Song.--By a_ WOMAN.

Each day, each hour, her name I’ll bless, My morning and my evening song; And when in death my vows shall cease, My children shall the note prolong.

MAN _Speaker._

The hardy veteran, after struck the sight, Scarr’d, mangled, maim’d in every part; Lopp’d of his limbs in many a gallant fight, In nought entire--except his heart; Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest, At last the impetuous sorrow fir’d his breast: “Wild is the whirlwind rolling O’er Afric’s sandy plain, And wild the tempest howling Along the billow’d main; But every danger felt before-- The raging deep, the whirlwind’s roar-- Less dreadful struck me with dismay, Than what I feel this fatal day. Oh! let me fly a land that spurns the brave-- Oswego’s dreary shores shall be my grave; I’ll seek that less inhospitable coast, And lay my body where my limbs were lost.”

_Song.--By a_ MAN.

Old Edward’s sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Crécy’s laurell’d field, To do thy memory right; For thine and Britain’s wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel, And wish the avenging fight.

WOMAN _Speaker_.

In innocence and youth complaining, Next appear’d a lovely maid-- Affliction o’er each feature reigning, Kindly came in beauty’s aid;

Every grace that grief dispenses, Every glance that warms the soul, In sweet succession charm’d the senses, While pity harmoniz’d the whole.

“The garland of beauty”--’tis thus she would say-- “No more shall my crook or my temples adorn; I’ll not wear a garland--Augusta’s away, I’ll not wear a garland until she return.

“But, alas! that return I never shall see, The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim; There promis’d a lover to come--but, O me! ’Twas death--’twas the death of my Mistress that came.

“But ever, for ever, her image shall last, I’ll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom; On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new-blossom’d thorn shall whiten her tomb.”

_Song._--_By a_ WOMAN.--_Pastorale._

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May No more will her crook or her temples adorn; For who’d wear a garland when she is away, When she is remov’d, and shall never return?

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac’d, We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom; And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new-blossom’d thorn shall whiten her tomb.

_Chorus._--_Altro modo._

On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac’d, We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom; And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.[40]

FOOTNOTES:

[38] Mother of King George III.; she died February 8th, 1772.

[39] From Collins.

[40] _Advertisement prefixed to_ THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:--“The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude, than of genius. In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.”

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

Long had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind-- The modern scribbling kind, who write In wit, and sense, and nature’s spite-- Till reading, I forgot what day on, A chapter out of Tooke’s Pantheon,[41] I think I met with something there, To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious: First please to turn to god Mercurius: You’ll find him pictur’d at full length, In book the second, page the tenth. The stress of all my proofs on him I lay; And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat; Wings upon either side--mark that. Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why, these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather! very right-- With wit that’s flighty, learning light, Such as to modern bards decreed; A just comparison--proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse: Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design’d, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air. And here my simile unites-- For, in a modern poet’s flights, I’m sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t’ observe his hand, Fill’d with a snake-encircled wand, By classic authors term’d Caduceus, And highly fam’d for several uses: To wit, most wondrously endued, No poppy-water half so good; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue’s such, Though ne’er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore: Add, too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men’s souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then; His wand ’s a modern author’s pen; The serpents round about it twin’d Denote him of the reptile kind-- Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom’d bites. An equal semblance still to keep, Alike, too, both conduce to sleep-- This difference only, as the god Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript-- Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover, Mercury had a failing; Well! what of that? out with it--stealing; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he. But even this deity’s existence Shall lend my simile assistance: Our modern bards! why, what a-pox Are they--but senseless stones and blocks?

FOOTNOTES:

[41] A popular school-book, by Andrew Tooke, Head Master of the Charter-house.

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.

When lovely Woman stoops to folly, And finds, too late, that men betray-- What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom--is, to die.

Thus, when soft Love subdues the heart, With smiling hopes and chilling fears, The soul rejects the aid of art, And speaks in moments more than years.

SEPTEMBER 13, 1759.

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 start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts 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.

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a booksellers’ hack; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don’t think he’ll wish to come back.

FOOTNOTES:

[42] Edward Purdon was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of the army, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire’s Henriade, and died in 1767.

In all my Enna’s beauties blest, Amidst profusion still I pine; For though she gives me up her breast, Its panting tenant is not mine.

This tomb, inscrib’d 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 flowery way! 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.

Where the Red Lion, flaring o’er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay-- Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane-- There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The muse found Scroggen, stretch’d beneath a rug. A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray, That dimly show’d the state in which he lay: The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William show’d his lamp-black face.[43] The morn was cold--he views with keen desire The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire; With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d, And five crack’d tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board; A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay, A cap by night--a stocking all the day!

FOOTNOTES:

[43] The Duke of Cumberland.

SCENE.--_A Room in the Alehouse, “The Three Pigeons.”_

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning-- Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives _genus_ a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods-- Their Lethes, and Styxes, and Stygians; Their Quis, and their Quæs, and their Quods: They ’re all but a parcel of Pigeons. To-roddle, to-roddle, to-rol.

When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I’ll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I’ll leave it to all men of sense-- But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon. To-roddle, &c.

Then, come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever; Our hearts and our liquors are stout-- Here’s the “Three Jolly Pigeons” for ever! Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons; But of all the gay birds in the air-- Here’s a health to the “Three Jolly Pigeons.” To-roddle, &c.

“This _is_ a poem! This _is_ a copy of verses!”

Your mandate I got-- You may all go to pot: Had your senses been right, You’d have sent before night. As I hope to be sav’d, I put off being shav’d, For I could not make bold, While the matter was cold, To meddle in suds, Or to put on my duds. So tell Horneck and Nesbitt, And Baker and his bit, And Kauffman beside, And the Jessamy[44] bride, With the rest of the crew, The Reynoldses two, Little Comedy’s[45] face, And the Captain[46] in lace. --(By the by, you may tell him I have something to sell him; Of use, I insist, When he comes to enlist. Your worships must know, That a few days ago An order went out, For the foot-guards so stout To wear tails in high taste-- Twelve inches at least: Now, I’ve got him a scale To measure each tail; To lengthen a short tail, And a long one to curtail.)

Yet how can I, when vext, Thus stray from my text! Tell each other to rue Your Devonshire crew. For sending so late To one of my state. But ’tis Reynolds’s way, From wisdom to stray, And Angelica’s whim To be frolick like him--

But, alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser, When both have been spoil’d in to-day’s _Advertiser_?[47]

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

FOOTNOTES:

[44] Miss Mary Horneck.

[45] Miss Catherine Horneck, afterwards Mrs. Bunbury.

[46] Ensign Horneck.

[47] The allusion is to some complimentary verses, in the _Advertiser_, on Kauffman and Reynolds.

Ah, me! when shall I marry me? Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me; He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner: Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover; She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent--loses a lover.

Say, heavenly muse, their youthful frays rehearse; Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse. Exulting rocks have own’d the power of song, And rivers listen’d as they flow’d along.

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word-- From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass’d her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor-- Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please, With manners wondrous winning, And never follow’d wicked ways-- Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber’d in her pew-- But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has follow’d her-- When she has walk’d before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead-- Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That, had she liv’d a twelvemonth more-- She had not died to-day.

First, let me suppose, what may shortly be true, The company set, and the word to be--loo; All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure, And ogling the stake which is fix’d in the centre. Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn, At never once finding a visit from Pam. I lay down my stake, apparently cool, While the harpies about me all pocket the pool; I fret in my gizzard--yet, cautious and sly, I wish all my friends may be bolder than I: Yet still they sit snug; not a creature will aim, By losing their money, to venture at fame. ’Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold, ’Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold; All play their own way, and they think me an ass: “What does Mrs. Bunbury?” “I, sir? I pass.” “Pray what does Miss Horneck? Take courage, come, do!” “Who--I? Let me see, sir; why, I must pass, too.” Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the Devil, To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil; Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on, Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion, I venture at all, while my avarice regards The whole pool as my own, “Come, give me five cards.” “Well done!” cry the ladies; “ah! Doctor, that’s good-- The pool’s very rich. Ah! the Doctor is loo’d.” Thus foil’d 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 Fielding? 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 hat. When uncover’d, a buzz of inquiry runs round: “Pray what are their crimes?” “They’ve been pilfering found.” “But, pray, whom have they pilfer’d?” “A Doctor, I hear.” “What, that solemn-fac’d, odd-looking man that stands near?” “The same.” “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 leering, To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing. First, Sir Charlès 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 dyed 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 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 next--but I want room--so I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week. I don’t value you all!

O. G.

FOOTNOTES:

[48] To Mrs. Bunbury.

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 compar’d to this? As when, in Paphian groves, the Queen of Love With fond complaint address’d 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.

Chaste are their instincts, faithful is their fire, No foreign beauty tempts to false desire; The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown, The simple plumage, or the glossy down, Prompt not their love: the patriot bird pursues His well-acquainted tints, and kindred hues. Hence, through their tribes no mix’d polluted flame, No monster-breed to mark the groves with shame; But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true, Thinks black alone is beauty’s favourite hue; The nightingale, with mutual passion blest, Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest; While the dark owl to court his partner flies, And owns his offspring in their yellow eyes.[49]

FOOTNOTES:

[49] From the Latin lines of Addison (_Spectator_, No. 412), who remarks:--“In birds, we often see the male determined in his courtship by the single grain, or tincture of a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species.”

_From the Latin, preserved by Macrobius._

What! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage, And save from infamy my sinking age? Scarce half alive, opprest with many a year, What, in the name of dotage, drives me here? A time there was, when glory was my guide, Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside; Unaw’d by power, and unappall’d by fear, With honest thrift I held my honour dear: But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honour is no more-- For, ah! too partial to my life’s decline, Cæsar persuades--submission must be mine! Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys; Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin’d to please. Here, then, at once I welcome every shame, And cancel at threescore a life of fame. No more my titles shall my children tell-- The old buffoon will fit my name as well; This day beyond its term my fate extends, For life is ended when our honour ends.

_Spoken by Mr. Quick._

In these bold times, when Learning’s sons explore The distant climates, and the savage shore-- When wise Astonomers[51] to India steer, And quit for _Venus_ many a brighter here-- While botanists,[52] all cold to smiles and dimpling, Forsake the fair, and patiently go simpling-- When every bosom swells with wondrous scenes, Priests, cannibals, and _hoity-toity_ queens---- Our bard into the general spirit enters, And fits his little frigate for adventures. With Scythian stores, and trinkets, deeply laden, He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading-- Yet ere he lands, he’s ordered me before, To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven? Our reckoning sure is lost! This seems a barren and a dangerous coast. Lord! what a sultry climate am I under! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder-- [_Upper gallery._ There mangroves spread, and larger than I’ve seen em-- [_Pit._ Here trees of stately size, and turtles in ’em-- [_Balconies._ Here ill-conditioned oranges abound-- [_Stage._ And apples [_takes up one, and tastes it_], _bitter_ apples, strew the ground. The place is uninhabited, I fear! I heard a hissing--there are serpents here; O, there the natives are--a dreadful race; The men have tails, the women paint the face. No doubt they ’re all barbarians--yes, ’tis so; I’ll try to make palaver with them, though; ’Tis best, however, keeping at a distance. Good savages, our Captain craves assistance; Our ship’s well stor’d--in yonder creek we’ve laid her: His honour is no mercenary trader: This is his first adventure; lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far-- Equally fit for gallantry and war. What! no reply to promises so ample? I’d best step back, and order up a sample.

FOOTNOTES:

[50] By Joseph Cradock.

[51] Cook and Green.

[52] Banks and Solander.

_Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley._

What! five long acts--and all to make us wiser! 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: My life on’t, this had kept her play from sinking, Have pleas’d our eyes, and sav’d the pain of thinking. Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade?--I will. But how? ay, there’s the rub! [_pausing_]--I’ve got my cue: The world’s a masquerade! the maskers--you, you, you. [_To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery._ Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses-- False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside them, Patriots, in party-colour’d suits, that ride them. 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 everything but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark I fix my eye on, Who seems to have robb’d his vizor from the lion; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, 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 to 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’s a black. 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[53] Written by Mrs. Charlotte Lennox.

_Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low, as beginning to speak; then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the Audience._

MRS. BULKLEY.

Hold, Ma’am! your pardon. What’s your business here?

MISS CATLEY.

The Epilogue.

MRS. BULKLEY.

The Epilogue?

MISS CATLEY.

Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Sure you mistake, Ma’am. The Epilogue? _I_ bring it.

MISS CATLEY.

Excuse me, Ma’am. The Author bid _me_ sing it.

_Recitative._

Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Suspend your conversation while I sing.

MRS. BULKLEY.

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?

MRS. BULKLEY.

The House!--Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.

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.

MISS CATLEY.

I’m for a different set,--old men, whose trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies--

_Recitative._

Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling:

_Air._--_Cotillon._

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, _Da Capo._

MRS. BULKLEY.

Let all the old pay homage to your merit: Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. Ye travell’d tribe, ye maccaroni 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.[54]

MISS CATLEY.

Ay, take your travellers--travellers, indeed! Give me the 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 bonnie young Lad is my Jockey._

I’ll 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 Sandie, and Sawnie, and Jockey, With Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey.

MRS. BULKLEY.

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.

MISS CATLEY.

_Air._--_Ballinamony._

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.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?

MISS CATLEY.

And, that our friendship may remain unbroken, What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

MRS. BULKLEY.

Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.

And now, with late repentance, Un-epilogu’d the Poet waits his sentence: Condemn the stubborn fool who can’t submit To thrive by flattery--though he starves by wit. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[54] A popular dancer at the Opera House, in 1773.

_To be spoken by Mrs. Bulkley._

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-- 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 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, maccaronies, 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 dotes 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,[55] too, with angry phrases stor’d-- 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 come the sons of scandal and of news, But find no sense--for they had none to lose. Of all the tribes 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[55] The ruffian of the streets, in the 18th century.

_Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, in the character of Miss Hardcastle._

Well! having STOOPED TO CONQUER with success, And gain’d a husband without aid from dress,-- Still, as a barmaid, I could wish it too, As I have conquer’d him, to conquer you: And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty barmaids have done execution. Our life is all a play, compos’d to please; “We have our _exits_ and our _entrances_.” The first Act shows the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of everything afraid; Blushes when hir’d, and with unmeaning action: “I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.” Her second Act displays a livelier scene,-- The 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 chop-house toast 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; Pretends to taste, at operas cries _caro_, And quits her _Nancy Dawson_ for _Che faro_; Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride, Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside Ogles and leers with artificial skill, Till, having lost in age the power to kill, 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 Bayes.[56]

FOOTNOTES:

[56] The name of “Bayes,” which Buckingham (1671) bestowed upon Dryden, became a synonyme for a dramatic critic.

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure, To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure-- Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend, For epilogues and prologues, on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down: Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teas’d each rhyming friend to help him out. “An Epilogue--things can’t go on without it; It could not fail, would you but set about it.” “Young man,” cries one--a bard laid up in clover-- “Alas! young man, my writing days are over; Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I: Your brother Doctor there, perhaps may try.” “What, I? dear Sir,” the Doctor interposes; “What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses! No, no, I’ve other contests to maintain; To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane.[58] Go, ask your Manager.” “Who? me? Your pardon; These things are not our forte at Covent Garden.”[59] Our Author’s friends, thus plac’d at happy distance, Give him good words, indeed, but no assistance. As some unhappy wight, at some new play, At the pit door stands elbowing away; While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug; His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise; He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace; But not a soul will budge to give him place. Since, then, unhelp’d, our bard must now conform “To ’bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,” Blame where you must, be candid where you can, And be each critic the GOOD-NATURED MAN.

FOOTNOTES:

[57] “The Author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered owes all its success to the graceful manner of the Actress who spoke it.”

[58] Where the College of Physicians formerly stood.

[59] Mr. B. Corney says:--“Colman, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre, had then written about ten prologues and epilogues: Garrick, the joint-patentee of Drury Lane Theatre, had written about sixty.”

Ye muses, pour the pitying tear, For Pollio snatch’d away; Oh! had he liv’d another year-- He had not died to-day.

Oh! were he born to bless mankind, In virtuous times of yore, Heroes themselves had fall’n 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 implor’d relief in vain-- That went reliev’d away.

And, hark! I hear the tuneful throng His obsequies forbid; He still shall live, shall live as long-- As ever dead man did.

FOOTNOTES:

[60] A burlesque elegy.

_To be spoken in the character of Harlequin, at his Benefit._

Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense; I’d speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said, My heels eclips’d the honours of my head; That I found humour in a piebald vest, Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. [_Takes off his mask._ Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth? Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps-- The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. How hast thou fill’d the scene with all thy brood Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu’d! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses; Whose only plot it is to break our noses; Whilst from below, the trap-door demons rise, And from above, the dangling deities. And shall I mix in this unhallow’d crew? May rosin’d lightning blast me, if I do![61] No--I will act--I’ll vindicate the stage; Shakspere himself shall feel my tragic rage. Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns! The madd’ning monarch revels in my veins! Oh! for a Richard’s voice to catch the theme: “Give me another horse! bind up my wounds--soft--’twas but a dream,” Ay, ’twas but a dream--for now there’s no retreating; If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. ’Twas thus that Æsop’s stag--a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless-- Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill’d at his image in the flood. “The deuce confound,” he cries, “these drumstick shanks; They neither 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 drew; “Hoicks! hark forward!” came thundering 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 priz’d 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._

FOOTNOTES:

[61] Stage-lightning.

THE END.

EDMUND EVANS, ENGRAVER AND PRINTER, RAQUET COURT, FLEET STREET

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Oliver Goldsmith, by Oliver Goldsmith