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 lived a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

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.

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

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,

·

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your gracesAs I hope to be saved!-without thinking on asses.'

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscribed 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.

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.

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 pleasure start, O Wolfe!t to thee a streaming flood of wo

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, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can sooth her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?

This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he inlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became Cribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.

+ Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant soldier, whose character he greatly admired.

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.

A SONNET.

WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight,
Myra, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.

SONG.

From the Oratorio of the Captivity.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

SONG:

From the Oratorio of the Captivity.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain.

• This sonnet is imitated from a French madrigal of St. Pavier.

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a fce.

SONG.

Intended to have been sung in the comedy of She Stoops to Conquer, but omitted, because Mrs. Bulkley, who acted the part of Miss Hard castle, could not sing.

АH 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, nor a smile, shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY;

WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ., ACTED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, 1772.

SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climates and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling :
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 rocky 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 billing turtles in 'em.

[Balconies. [Stage.

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound-
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:

[Tasting them.

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

Oh, there the people are-best keep my distance:
Our Captain, gentle natives, craves assistance;
Our ship's well stored-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.

EPILOGUE

TO 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 sinking,
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.

By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, Shakspeare Illustrated, &c. It was performed one night only at Covent Garden, in 1769. This lady was praised by Dr. Johnson, as the cle verest female writer of her age.