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JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE.

Here Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay--I will make an odd fellow!
Right and wrong shall be jumbled,—much gold and some
dross;

Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking,
Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail:
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,

This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet;
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals-be Goldsmith his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him-to make us sport here.

ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL

COOKERY.

A JEU D'ESPRIT.

Are these the choice dishes the doctor has sent us? Is this the great poet whose works so content us? This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books? Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.

Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye:
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

He has not left a wiser or better behind;
Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard
of hearing:

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios,

and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT.

After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the pub lisher received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,t from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :‡ Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun! Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill: A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confined! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content "if the table he set in a roar;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfalls confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb. To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then strew all around it (you can do no loss) Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.Il

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

† Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.

§ Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

I Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with hu morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I ad- There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen

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And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:
[Tasting them.
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF O, there the people are best keep my distance:

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.*

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 CRADDOCK, ESQ. ACTED AT THE
THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, MDCCLXXII.
SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK.

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,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF
HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT

sense:

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non-
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 order'd 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!

[Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of foole pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,

Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:Whose only plot it is to break our noses;

[Upper Gallery.

SIR-I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold smith, 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 admi"able 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.

Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities;
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:
Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!-
soft-'twas but a dream.

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreat.
ing,

If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that sop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,

Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavill'd at his image in the flood.
"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick
shanks,

They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye, how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen
drew;

Hoicks! hark forward! came thund'ring from behind,

He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length, his silly head, so prized before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself, like me.

[Taking a jump through the stage door.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED,

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.

LOGICIANS have but ill defined
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione præditum ;

But for my soul I can not credit 'em;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide,
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;

They never to the levee go,

To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Pater-Noster Row;

No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets or poctasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confest, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators:
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen, lords, and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.

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THE GOOD-NATURED MANS

A Comedy;

AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN

PREFACE,

The

WHEN I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of the last age, and strove to imitate them. term, genteel comedy, was then unknown amongst us, and little more was desired by an audience, than nature and humour, in whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous. The author of the following scenes never imagined that more would be expected of him, and therefore to delineate character has been his principal aim. Those who know any thing of composition, are sensible that, in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of the mean; I was even tempted to look for it in the master of a spunging-house; but in deference to the public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a particular way, the scene is here restored. The author submits it to the reader in his closet; and hopes that too much refinement will not banish humour and character from ours, as it has already done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French comedy is now become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has not only banished humour and Moliere from the stage, but it has banished all spectators too.

Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the public for the favourable reception which The Good-Natured Man" has met with; and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any, who shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection.

PROLOGUE

WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON,

AND

SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY.

PREST by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human kind; With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain; Our anxious bard without complaint, may share This bustling season's epidemic care, Like Cæsar's pilot, dignified by fate, Tost in one common storm with all the great; Distrest alike, the statesman and the wit, When one a borough courts, and one the pit. The busy candidates for power and fame Have hopes and fears, and wishes, just the same; Disabled both to combat or to fly, Must bear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th' offended burgess holds his angry tale, For that blest year when all that vote may rail; Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss. "This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote." "This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet-I hiss him, and he dies.” The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe; The bard may supplicate, but can not bribe. Yet judged by those, whose voices ne'er were sold, He feels no want of ill-persuading gold; But confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts, without fear, to merit, and to you.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

MR. HONEYWOOD

CROAKER

LOFTY

MEN.

MR. POWELL.

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MR. SHUTER.

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MR. CLARKE.

MR. BENSLEY.

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has only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name on't, I'm always sure he's going to play the fool.

Sir William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to

MR. WOODWARD. his philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature arises rather from his fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving happy.

MR. DUNSTALL.

MR. CUSHING.

MR. R. SMITH.

MR. HOLTAM.

MR. QUICK.

MRS. BULKLey.
MRS. MATTOCKS.
MRS. PITT.

MRS. GREEN.

MRS. WHITE.

Scene-London.

Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know. But to be sure, every body has it, that asks it.

Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation.

Jarvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them all. He calls his extravagance, generosity; and his trusting every body, universal benevolence. It was but last week he went security for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted mu-mu-munificence; ay, that was the name he gave it.

Sir William. And upon that I proceed, as my

THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. last effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim

ACT I.

him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I have taken up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has

SCENE AN APARTMENT IN YOUNG HONEYWOOD's plunged himself into real calamity: to arrest him for

HOUSE.

Enter SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD, JARVIS.

Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies| for this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best excuse for every freedom.

that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see which of his friends will come to his relief.

Jarvis. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to me; yet faith, I believe it impossible. I have tried to fret him myself every morning these three years; but instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hair-dresser. Sir William. We must try him once more,

Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as your neDhew, my master. All the world loves him. Sir William. Say rather, that he loves all the however, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme world; that is his fault.

Jarvis. I am sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, though he has not seen you since he was a child.

Sir William. What signifies his affection to me; or how can I be proud of a place in a heart, where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy entrance?

into execution: and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by your means, I can have frequent opportunities of being about him without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good-will to others should produce so much neglect of himself, as to require correction! Yet we must touch his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we

Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too good-can scarce weed out the vice without eradicating natured; that he's too much every man's inan; that the virtue. [Exit. he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Howith another; but whose instructions may he thank neywood. It is not without reason, that the world for all this? allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes

Sir William. Not mine, sure? My letters to his hopeful nephew; the strange, good-natured, him during my employment in Italy, taught him foolish, open-hearted—And yet, all his faults are only that philosophy which might prevent, not de- such that one loves him still the better for them. fend his errors.

Enter HONEYWOOD.

Jarvis. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all; it my friends this morning?

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