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;
Unawed 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;
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 inclined 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 terin my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

A fellowship at twenty five
Made him the happiest man alive;
He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.

Such pleasures unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ?
O had the archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town!
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop!
O had her eyes forgot to blaze!
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze!
O!- -but let exclamations cease,
Her presence banish'd all his peace.
So with decorum all things carried;
Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was-
married.

Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night? Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, Or draw the curtains closed around? Let it suffice that each had charms; He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; And though she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man 'twas well enough.

The honey-moon like lightning flew
The second brought its transports too;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss,
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss:
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain'd behind,
That very face had robb'd her mind.

Skill'd in no other arts was she,
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.
'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace,
Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy night caps wrapp'd her head.

Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing?

In short, by night, 'twas fits for fretting;
By day 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee;
The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations :
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were pass'd between
Insulting repartee or spleen.

Thus as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown;
He fancies every vice she shows,
Or thins her lip, or points her nose :
Whenever rage or envy rise,

How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes;
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And, though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now to perplex the ravelled noose,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower:-
Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell'd its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright: Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes; In vain she tries her paste and creams To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens; The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And ev'n the captain quit the field.

Poor madam now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old : With modesty her cheeks are dyed, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature every day: Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

A

NEW SIMILE

IN THE

MANNER OF SWIFT.

LONG had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind; The modern scribbling kind who write, In wit, and sense, and nature's spite : Till reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious, First please to turn to god Mercurius ! You'll find him pictured at full length, In book the second, page the tenth : The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side-mark that. Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather! very right, With wit that's flighty beaming light; Such as to modern bards decreed; A just comparison,-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air: And here my simile unites, For in the modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand; By classic authors term'd caduceus, And highly famed for several uses. To wit-most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore, Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then ;His wand's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twined, Denote him of the reptile kind, Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom'd bites, An equal semblance still to keep, Alike too both conduce to sleep, This difference only, as the god Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover Merc'ry had a failing;

Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why, what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks.

DESCRIPTION

OF AN

AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

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

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The muse found Scroggen stretched beneath

a rug;

A window, patched with paper, lent a ray, That dimly showed the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons framed with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William showed his lampblack face.

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,

And five cracked tea-cups dressed the chimneyboard;

A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay, A cap by night-a stocking all the day;

The following Letter addressed to the Printer of the St James's Chronicle, appeared in that Paper in June, 1767.

SIR,

As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr Percy.

*The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry." vol, i. Book 2. No. 18.

I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

I am, Sir, Yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE HERMIT;

A

BALLAD.

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.

"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?

"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's jest ;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said;