There's a pasty'—' A pasty! (repeated the Jew ;) I don't care if I keep a corner for 't too.'— 'What the de'il, mon, a pasty! (reecho'd the Scot;) Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.'‹ We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out; • We'll all keep a corner,' was echo'd about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad and so pale with affright Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out (for who could mistake her?) [baker. That she came with some terrible news from the And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus-but let similes dropAnd now that I think on't the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced,

To send such good verses to one of your taste: You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning

A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your

own;

So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

RETALIATION.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1774.

AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffeehouse.--One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.]

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was

united.

[fish, If our landlord' supplies us with beef, and with Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:

plains,

Our dean' shall be venison, just fresh from the [brains, Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the

savour:

The master of the St. James's Coffeehouse, where the Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined.

2 Dr. Bernard, dean of Derry in Ireland.

3 Edmund Burke.

4 Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin.

5 Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada.

6

Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall

obtain,

And Douglas' is pudding, substantial and plain :
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:

To make out the dinner full certain I am,

9

10

That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynold's 1 is lamb ;
That Hickey's" a capon; and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom
with mirth:

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks I could not find them out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied

them,

That slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them.

Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, The Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.'

7 Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor (late bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes,

8 David Garrick.

9 Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.

10 Sir Joshua Reynolds. 11 An eminent attorney.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was

such,

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for man[throat,

kind: Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his To persuade Tommy Townshend 12 to lend him a

vote;

Who,too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, whose heart was a

mint, [was in't; While the owner ne'er knew half the good that The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were [sigh at; Here lies honest Richard", whose fate I must Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!

his own.

12 Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.

13 Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.

What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick

That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old
Nick;

But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts:
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine:

Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud:
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself.

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:

When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;