Oliver Goldsmith

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT Long had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind;

Weeping, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight; MYRA, too sincere for feigning,

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam BLAIZE, Who never wanted a good word

Worried with debts and past all hopes of bail, His pen he prostitutes t' avoid a gaol. ROSCOM.

Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne,

'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wond'rous short,

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,

'Enter' MRS. BULKLEY, 'who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter' MISS CATLEY,

There is a place, so Ariosto sings, A treasury for lost and missing things; Lost human wits have places assign'd them,

Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, Still, as a Bar-maid, I could wish it too,

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

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

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world,

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,

MADAM, I read your letter with all that allowance which critical candour could require, but after all find so much to object to, and so much to raise my indignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious answer. I am not so ignorant, Madam, as not to see there are many sarcasms contained in it, and solecisms also. (Solecism is a word that comes from the town of Soleis in Attica, among the Greeks, built by Solon, and applied as we use the word Kidderminster for curtains, from a town also of that name; but this is learning you have no taste for!) I say, Madam, there are sarcasms in it, and solecisms also. But not to seem an ill-natured critic, I'll take leave to quote your own words, and give you my remarks upon them as they occur. You begin as follows:

Ye Muses, pour the pitying tear For Pollio snatch'd away; O! had he liv'd another year!

Sure 'twas by Providence design'd, Rather in pity, than in hate, That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

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,

Preserved By Macrobius. What! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, And save from infamy my sinking age!

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore The distant climate and the savage shore; When wise Astronomers to India steer,

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish,

Let school-masters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,

When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy,

Ah me! when shall I marry me? Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me: He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

THE PERSONS. FIRST ISRAELITISH PROPHET. SECOND ISRAELITISH PROPHET.

John Trott was desired 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,

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

Secluded from domestic strife, Jack Book-worm led a college life; A fellowship at twenty-five

To Iris, In Bow Street, Convent Garden Say, cruel IRIS, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty,

Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study,

In Imitation Of Dean Swift Logicians have but ill defin'd As rational, the human kind;

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. OVERTURE A SOLEMN DIRGE. AIR TRIO. Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,

'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 or small,

Chaste are their instincts, faithful is their fire, No foreign beauty tempts to false desire; The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown,

In all my Enna's beauties blest, Amidst profusion still I pine; For though she gives me up her breast,

'This 'is' a poem! This 'is' a copy of verses!' Your mandate I got, You may all go to pot;

Translated Armies of box that sportively engage And mimic real battles in their rage,