STANZAS ON WOMAN.

[From the Vicar of Wakefield.]

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.

A SONNET.*

UNIVERS Library.

Of California

WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight,
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.

SONG.

[From the Oratorio of the Captivity.]

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray:

This sonnet is closely imitated from a French madrigal of St Pavier.-B.

[From the Oratorio of the Captivity.]

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain.

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

SONG.*

Intended to have been sung in the comedy of She Stoops to Conquer [but omitted, because Mrs Bulkley, who acted the part of Miss Hardcastle could not sing.-B.]

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 CRADOCK, 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;

This song was communicated, after Goldsmith's death, to the publishers of his Poems, by Boswell, the biographer of Dr Johnson. Goldsmith himself used to sing it to a pretty Irish air, called "The Humours of Balamagairy," to which he confessed that he found it very difficult to adapt words.-B.

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

Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em.

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound

[Pit.

[Balconies. [Stage.

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground: [Tasting them.
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
Oh, there the people are-best keep my

distance:

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 TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.*

WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;

By Mrs Charlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, Shakespeare Illustrated, &c. It was performed one night only at Covent Garden, in 1769. This lady, who was praised by Dr Johnson, as the cleverest female writer of her age, (vide Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. iv. p. 267,) died in distressed circumstances, Jan. 4, 1804.-B

Warm'd up each bustling scene, and, in her rage,
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on 't, this had kept her play from sinking,
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.
Well, since she thus has shewn her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade? — I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] I've got my cue: The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses!
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em:
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore;
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen :

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And trys to kill, ere she's got power to cure.
Thus 'tis with all: their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing-but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the iion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, Damme! whose afraid?
{Mimicking

Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am,
You'll find his lionship a very lamb:
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems, to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,

He bows, turns round, and whip—the man's in black!
Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?

If I proceed, our bard will be undone !

Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too :

Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY

MRS BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.

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?

Miss Catley. The Epilogue.

Mrs B. The Epilogue?

Miss C. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

Miss B. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue! I bring it.

Miss Č. 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 B. 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.

Miss C. What if we leave it to the house?

Mrs B. The house! - Agreed.

Miss C. Agreed.

Mrs B. 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 C. I'm for a different set: - Old men, whose trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.