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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.'

Edinburgh, 1753.

STANZAS ON WOMAN.1

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.

1 See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xxiv.

A DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S
BEDCHAMBER.1

Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham-
paign,
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 lampblack face: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 teacups dress'd the chimney board;
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

1 These lines first appeared in the Citizen of the World, vol. i. letter xxix.

SONG.

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF
'SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.''

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,

James Koswell.

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,
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.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*

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

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.

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