SIR,

A LETTER.

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 hand-writing, with an affectionate care.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

SONG,

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

Ан 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.

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

(Imitated from the Spanish.)

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.

A PROLOGUE,

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE

POET LABERIUS,

A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.

Preserved by Macrobius *.

WHAT! no way left to shun th'inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half-alive, oppress'd 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;

*This translation was first printed in one of our Author's earliest works, The Present State of Learning in Europe,' 12mo. 1759.

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.

EPITAPH ON 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.

*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.

EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.

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 sink-
ing;

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? aye, there's the rub! [pausing]— I've got my cue :

The world's a masquerade; the masquers, you,

you, you.

[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.