« AnteriorContinuar »
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
John Trott was desir'd by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears? 'An't please you,' quoth John,' I'm not given to
letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses.'
STANZAS ON WOMAN.1
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
The only art her guilt to cover,
To give repentance to her lover,
1 See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xxiv.
A DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S
Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
1 These lines first appeared in the Citizen of the World, vol. i. letter xxix.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF
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, and loses a lover.
1 Sir, I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of ' She Stoops to Conquer,' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called ' The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own handwriting, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir,
Your humble Servant,
STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
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 pleasures 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 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, tho' dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
This tomb inscrib'd to gentle1 Parnell's name,
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*
Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
1 'With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd.'
Pope on ParnelL
'This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier: growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.