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RETALIATION;

A POEM.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV, AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St James's CoffeeHouse. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for RETALIATION, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.

Or 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 each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:

Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;

Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains :

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1 The master of the St James's Coffee-house, where the Doctor and the friends he has characterised in this poem, occasionally dined.

2 Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. 3 The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

4 Mr William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin.

5 Mr Richard Burke, collector of Granada.

6 Mr Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and various other productions. *

7 Dr Douglas, canon of Windsor, (now bishop of Salisbury) an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen, particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.

8 David Garrick, Esq.

At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,

Till all my companions sink under the table; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling iny head,

Let me ponder and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks, I could not find 'em out; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,

That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide

'em.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius

was such,

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much: Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.

Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat,

To persuade Tommy Townshend' to lend him a vote;

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,

And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining:

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, dis

obedient,

And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.

In short 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,

To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a

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What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ;

9 Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!

the Irish bar.

10 Sir Joshua Reynolds.

11 An eminent attorney.

Since this note was written, of "Calvary, or the Death of

1 Mr T. Townshend, membe.: for Whitechurch

Christ."

What spirits were his! what wit and what | Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, whim! And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

1

Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!

Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!

Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old
Nick;

But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,

The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they

are.

His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,

And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud,
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their
own;

Say, where has our poet this malady caught, Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?

Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,

Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,

Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:

When satire and censure encircle his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our 2 Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall
lecture;

3

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who

can,

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,

The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a-day: Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick

If they were not his own by finessing and trick: He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what

came,

And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye 5 Kellys, and Woodfalls so
grave,

6

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his
skill,

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above."

5 Mr Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style, to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. Our Townshend make speeches, and I shali

compile :

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,

No countryman living their tricks to discover;

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6 Mr William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

7 The following poems by Mr Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr Goldsmith in respect to that gentleman.

JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE.
Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay-1 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.

H

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,

And slander itself must allow him good-nature; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper,

Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.

Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer no, no, for he always was wiser.
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.

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral 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 Wood fall 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 less)
5 Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the
press.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit

That a Scot may have humour, I had almost

He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
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.

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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.

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

2 Mr Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

3 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.

said wit.

This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd Muse."

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 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.

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;

4 Mr H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Adver. tiser.

5 Mr Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public

While botanists all cold to smile 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
trading-

Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.

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 maddening monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme;

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!

lost!

seen 'em

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
[Pit.
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles
in 'em.
[The balconies.
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound- [Stage.
And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:
[Tasting them.

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear :
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
O, there the people are-best keep my dis-

tance:

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.

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,
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head.;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest,
[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 fools pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses :

soft-'twas but a dream.

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there is no retreating.

If I cease Harlequin I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that Esop'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 drum-
stick 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 hunts

men drew;

Hoicks! hark forward! came thundering 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 preditum; But for my soul à cannot 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,

STANZAS

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 folk at Pater-Noster Row;
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpokets or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, 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 master's 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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