The absurdity of making hay at Christmas you yourself seem sensible of; you say your sister will laugh, and so indeed she well may. The Latins have an expression for a contemptuous sort of laughter, Naso contemnere adunco; that is, to laugh with a crooked nose; she may laugh at you in the manner of the ancients if she thinks fit.— But now I am come to the most extraordinary of all extraordinary propositions, which is, to take your and your sister's advice in playing at loo. The presumption of the offer raises my indignation beyond the bounds of prose; it inspires me at once with verse and resentment. I take advice! And from whom? You shall hear.

First let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set and the word to be-loo;
All smirking and pleasant and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fixed in the centre.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn,
At never once finding a visit from pam;

I lay down my stake apparently cool,

While the harpies about me all pocket the pool;

I fret in my gizzard, get cautious and sly,

I wish all my friends may be bolder than I;
Yet still they sit snug; not a creature will aim,
By losing their money, to venture at fame.
'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
"Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold;
All play their own way, and they think me an ass;
What does Mrs. Bunbury? I, Sir? I pass.

Pray what does Miss Horneck? Take courage, come, do!
Who, I? Let me see, Sir; why I must pass too.
Mrs. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the Devil,
To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil;
Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till made by my losses as bold as a lion.

I venture at all; while my avarice regards

The whole pool as my own. Come, give me five cards.
Well done! cry the ladies; ah! Doctor, that's good,
The pool's very rich. Ah! the Doctor is loo'd.
Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplext,

I ask for advice from the lady that's next.

Pray, Ma'am, be so good as to give your advice;

Don't you think the best way is to venture for 't twice?
I advise, cries the lady, to try it I own;

Ah! the Doctor is loo'd. Come Doctor, put down.
Thus playing and playing I still grow more eager,

And so bold and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar.
Now, ladies, I ask if law matters you're skilled in,

Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding;
For giving advice that is not worth a straw,

May well be called picking of pockets in law;

And picking of pockets with which I now charge ye,
Is by Quinto Elizabeth, death without clergy.
What justice, when both to the Old Bailey brought!
By the gods I'll enjoy it, tho' 'tis but in thought!
Both are placed at the bar with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel and nosegays before 'em;
Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,

But the Judge bids them angrily take off their hat.
When uncover'd, a buzz of enquiry goes round,
Pray what are their crimes? They've been pilfering found.
But, pray whom have they pilfer'd? A Doctor, I hear;
What, yon solemn-faced odd-looking man that stands near?
The same.
What a pity! How does it surprise one!
Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on!

Then their friends all come round me with cringing and leering.

To melt me to pity and soften my swearing.

First Sir Charles advances with phrases well strung,
Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young.
The younger the worse, I return him again,
It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain;

But then they're so handsome, one's bosom it grieves :
What signifies handsome when people are thieves!
But where is your justice? Their cases are hard;
What signifies justice ?-I want the reward.

There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds-There's the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pounds-There's the

parish of Tyburn, from the Hog in the Pound to St. Giles's Watchhouse, offers forty pounds-I shall have all that if I convict them.

But consider their case, it may yet be your own,

And see how they kneel; is your heart made of stone ?

This moves; so at last I agree to relent,

For ten pounds in hand and ten pounds to be spent.

I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot. It cuts deep; but now for the rest of the letter; and next-but I want room. So I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week.-I don't value you all.

O. G.

INTENDED EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

"SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."1

Enter MRS. BULKLEY, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak; then enter MISS CATLEY, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the Audience.

MRS. BULKLEY.

HOLD, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?

The Epilogue.

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BULKLEY.

The Epilogue?

MISS CATLEY.

Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue? I bring it.

1 First printed in Miscellaneous Works, 1801. A copy of this Epilogue in Goldsmith's handwriting, given to the late Dr. Farr, his fellow-student at Edinburgh, remains, it is said. in the family of that gentleman.

MISS CATLEY.

Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid me sing it.

Recitative.

Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing? A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.

Besides, a singer in a comic set-

Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette.

And she whose party's largest shall proceed.
And first, I hope you'll readily agree
I've all the critics and the wits for me.
They, I am sure, will answer my commands;
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands.
What! no return? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.

MISS CATLEY.

I'm for a different set.-Old men, whose trade is

Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.

Recitative.

Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling.

Air.-Cotillon.

Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever

Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye.

Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.

Yes I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu!
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho!
[Da Capo.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Let all the old pay homage to your merit;
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travell❜d tribe, ye macaroni train,

Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain;

Who take a trip to Paris once a year

To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here;
Lend me your hands.-O fatal news to tell,

Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.

MISS CATLEY.

Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed!

Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
Where are the chiels ?-Ah! ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.

Air.-A bonny young Lad is my Jockey.

I sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay;
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,

Make but of all your fortune one va toute:

Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, "I hold the odds.-Done, done, with you, with you." Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,

"My Lord,-Your Lordship misconceives the case." Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, "I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner: "

VOL. I.

K