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SONG:

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.

Ah 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.

* SIR,—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 thenı, 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.

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;
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!
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. 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

distance: Our Captain, gentle natives ! craves assistance; Our ship's well stor'd-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.
Wħat, 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:

Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your non-
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a pyeball 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 ;
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 re

treating, If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that Æsop'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 huntsmen

drew; Hoicks! hark forward! came thund'ring from be

hind,
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 priz'd 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.

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