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When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray—
What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can wash her guilt away?

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.

* Printed in The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766. —The stanzas, as introduced, have a close connection with the tale. The vicar and family had agreed to breakfast together at the honey-suckle bank — where Olivia first met Mr. Thornhill. Sophia favors them with a song; and poor Olivia, whose voice was always sweetest in the concert, is next called on. “She complied,” says the worthy divine, “in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me.”




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.

* From the Poems and Plays, 1777. — This epitaph was composed while the author was proceeding from his chambers in the Temple to a club at the Globe-tavern, in Fleet-street. – Edward Purdon, a fellowcollegian of our poet, wrote an anonymous Letter to David Garrick, esq., 1759. In this pamphlet he professes to teach Garrick “how he ought to behave ;” and bitterly defames Arthur Murphy, Mossop, etc. — for which he made a public apology. He is said to have translated the Henriade of Voltaire. He died suddenly in 1767.




“This is a poem This is a copy of verses!”

Your mandate I got—
You may all go to pot:
Had your senses been right,

You'd have sent before night.

1 From The Miscellaneous Works, 1837. The verses were communicated to the editor by Sir Henry Bunbury, bart. — The Amphitryon, on this occasion, was George Baker, M.D. His expected guests were Sir Joshua Reynolds—Miss Reynolds — Angelica Kauffman—Mrs. Horneck, widow of Captain Kane Horneck—her son Charles, or the captain in lace her daughters, Mary, or the jessamy bride, afterward Mrs. Gwyn, and Catherine, or little comedy, afterward Mrs. Bunbury. Baker, who attended the Reynoldses, obtained all the honors to which a learned physician is entitled to aspire. He survived till 1809.

As I hope to be sav'd,
I put off being shav’d—
For I could not make bold,
While the matter was cold,
To meddle in suds,
Or to put on my duds;
So tell Horneck and Nesbitt,
And Baker and his bit,
And Kauffman beside,
And the jessamy bride,
With the rest of the crew,
The Reynoldses two,
Little comedy's face,
And the captain in lace.
— By the by, you may tell him
I have something to sell him;
Of use I insist,
When he comes to enlist.
Your worships must know
That a few days ago,
An order went out,

For the footguards so stout

To wear tails in high taste—
Twelve inches at least:
Now I've got him a scale
To measure each tail;
To lengthen a short tail,
And a long one to curtail. —
Yet how can I, when vex'd,
Thus stray from my text'
Tell each other to rue
Your Devonshire crew,
For sending so late
To one of my state.
But 'tis Reynolds's way
From wisdom to stray,
And Angelica's whim
To be frolick like him—

But, alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser,

When both have been spoil'd in to-day's Advertiser?

Oliver Goldsmith.

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