The Poems 
 and Plays 
 of Oliver 
 Goldsmith 
 edited by 
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 Ex Libris 
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 THE LIBRARY 
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 POEMS AND PLAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
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 [Canonbury Tower is all that now exists of a very ancient 
 manor-house at Islington. In the last century it was let in 
 apartments, and was much patronized by literary men. 
 Busy John Newbery, the bookseller, a frequent resident, 
 ultimately died there, and among the other lodgers were 
 Chambers the Encyclopaedist, Smart the poet, Woodfall the 
 editor of Junius's Letters, Speaker Onslow, Dr. John Hill, 
 and Oliver Goldsmith. In these days of vanishing 
 antiquities, it may fitly form the frontispiece to a volume of 
 poems, of which some may have been written within its 
 walls.]
 
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 THE 
 
 POEMS AND PLAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 ^s§^> 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON 
 With Frontispiece by Herbert Railton 
 
 LONDON 
 J. M. DENT AND CO. 
 
 69 GREAT EASTERN STREET 
 iSgi
 
 CHISWICK PRESS :— C. WHITTINGHAM AND Co., 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PACE 
 
 Introduction vii 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society .... i 
 
 The Deserted Village 25 
 
 Retaliation 47 
 
 The Haunch of Venison 59 
 
 Prologue of Laberius .... • 69 
 
 On a Beautiful Youth struck blind with Lightning . 70 
 
 The Gift. To Iris, in Bow Street 71 
 
 The Logicians Refuted 73 
 
 A Sonnet 75 
 
 Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec 76 
 
 An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Bbize 77 
 
 Description of an Author'; B-dchamber 79 
 
 On seeing Mrs. * * perform in the Character of * * * 81 
 
 On the Death of the Right Hon. * * * 82 
 
 An Epigram 84 
 
 To G. C. and R. L 85 
 
 Translation of a South American Ode 85 
 
 The Double Transformation. A Tale 86 
 
 A New Simile, in the Manner of Swift 90 
 
 Edwin and Angelina 93 
 
 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 100 
 
 Song (" When Lovely Woman," etc.) 102 
 
 Epilogue to "The Sister" 103 
 
 A2 
 
 "! C *■■
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prologue to " Zobeide " 105 
 
 Threnodia Augustalis 107 
 
 Song ("Ah me ! when shall I many me ? ") . . . . 120 
 
 Translation 121 
 
 Epitaph on Thomas Parnell 122 
 
 The Clown's Reply 123 
 
 Epitaph on Edward Purdon 123 
 
 Epilogue for Lee Lewes 124 
 
 Epilogue written for " She Stoops to Conquer " (1) . 126 
 
 Epilogue written for " She Stoops to Conquer " (2) . 131 
 
 The Captivity : an Oratorio 133 
 
 Verses in Reply to an Invitation to Dinner .... 149 
 
 Letter in Prose and Verse to Mrs. Bunbury .... 152 
 
 Translation of Vida's " Came of Chess " 158 
 
 The Good-Natur'd Man 181 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer . . . . , 285 
 
 Scene from The Grumbler 397
 
 
 Vg^i 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 IIIRTY years of taking-in ; fifteen years 
 of giving out ; — that, in brief, is Oliver 
 Goldsmith's story. When, in 175S, 
 his failure to pass at Surgeons' Hall 
 finally threw him on letters for a living, the thirty 
 years were finished, and the fifteen years had been 
 begun. What was to come he knew not ; but, 
 from his bare-walled lodging in Green-Arbour 
 Court, he could at least look back upon a sufficiently 
 diversified past. lie had been an idle, orchard- 
 robbing schoolboy ; a tuneful but intractable sizar 
 of Trinity; a lounging, loitering, fair-haunting, flute- 
 playing Irish ' ' buckeen. " He had tried both Law 
 and Divinity, and crossed the threshold of neither. 
 He had started for London and stopped at Dublin ; 
 he had set out for America and arrived at Cork. 
 He had been many things :— a medical student, 
 a strolling musician, a corrector of the press, an 
 apothecary, an usher at a Peckham "academy." 
 Judged by ordinary standards, he had wantonly 
 wasted his time. And yet, as things fell out, it is 
 doubtful whether his parti-coloured experiences
 
 viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 were not of more service to him than any he could 
 have obtained if his progress had been less erratic. 
 Had he fulfilled the modest expectations of his 
 family, he would probably have remained a simple 
 curate in Westmeath, eking out his "forty pounds 
 a year" by farming a field or two, migrating con- 
 tentedly at the fitting season from the "blue bed 
 to the brown," and (it may be) subsisting vaguely 
 as a local poet upon the tradition of some youthful 
 couplets to a pretty cousin, who had married a richer 
 man. As it was, if he could not be said "to have 
 seen life steadily, and seen it whole," he had, at all 
 events, inspected it pretty narrowly in parts ; and, 
 at a time when he was most impressible, had pre- 
 served the impress of many things which, in his 
 turn, he was to re-impress upon his writings. " No 
 man " — says one of his biographers — "ever put so 
 much of himself into his books as Goldsmith." 
 To his last hour he was drawing upon the thoughts 
 and reviving the memories of that " unhallowed 
 time " when, to all appearance, he was hopelessly 
 squandering his opportunities. To do as Gold- 
 smith did, would scarcely enable a man to write a 
 Vicar of Wakefield or a Deserted Village, — certainly 
 his practice cannot be preached with safety "to 
 those that eddy round and round." But viewing 
 his entire career, it is difficult not to see how one 
 part seems to have been an indispensable prepara- 
 tion for the other, and to marvel once more (with 
 the philosopher Square) at " the eternal Fitness of 
 Things."
 
 INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 II. 
 
 The events of Goldsmith's life have been too 
 often narrated to need repetition here, and we shall 
 not resort to the well-worn device of repeating 
 them in order to say so. But, in a fresh reprint of 
 his Poems and Plays, some brief preamble to those 
 branches of his work may be excusable, and even 
 useful. And, with regard to both, what strikes 
 one first is the extreme tardiness of that late blos- 
 soming to which Johnson referred. When a man 
 succeeds as Goldsmith succeeded, friends and 
 critics speedily discover that he had shown signs 
 of excellence even from his boyish years. But, 
 setting aside those half-mythical ballads for the 
 Dublin street-singers, and some doubtful verses 
 for Jane Contarine, there is no definite evidence 
 that, from a doggerel couplet in his childhood to 
 an epigram not much better than doggerel com- 
 posed when he was five and twenty, he had written 
 a line of verse of the slightest importance ; and 
 even five years later, although he refers to himself 
 in a private letter as a "poet," it must have been 
 solely upon the strength of the unpublished frag- 
 ment of The Traveller, which in the interval, he 
 had sent to his brother Henry from abroad. It 
 is even more remarkable that — although so skilful 
 a correspondent must have been fully sensible of 
 his gifts — until, under the pressure of circumstances, 
 he drifted into literature, the craft of letters seems 
 never to have been his ambition. He thinks of 
 being a lawyer, a physician, a clergyman, — any- 
 thing but an author ; and when at last he engage.-;
 
 x INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in that profession, it is to free himself from a scho- 
 lastic servitude which he appears to have always 
 regarded with peculiar bitterness, yet to which, 
 after a first unsatisfactory trial of what was to be 
 his true vocation, he unhesitatingly returned. If 
 he went back once more to his pen, it was only to 
 enable him to escape from it more effectually, and 
 he was prepared to go as far as Coromandel. But 
 Literature — " toute eutiere a saproie attachce " — re- 
 fused to relinquish him ; and, although he con- 
 tinued to make spasmodic efforts to extricate 
 himself, detained him to the day of his death. 
 
 If there is no evidence that he had written much 
 when he entered upon what has been called his 
 second period, he had not the less formed his 
 opinions on many literary questions. Much of the 
 matter of the Polite Learni?ig is plainly manufac- 
 tured ad hoc; but in its references to authorship and 
 criticism, there is a personal note which is absent 
 elsewhere ; and when he speaks of the tyranny 
 of publishers, the sordid standards of criticism, and 
 the forlorn and precarious existence of the hapless 
 writer for bread, he is evidently reproducing a 
 condition of things with which he had become 
 familiar during his brief bondage on the Monthly 
 Review. As to his personal views on poetry in 
 particular, it is easy to collect them from this, and 
 later utterances. Against blank verse he protests 
 from the first, as suited only to the sublimest 
 themes— which is a polite way of shelving it 
 altogether ; while in favour of rhyme he alleges 
 that the very restriction stimulates the fancy, as 
 a fountain plays higher when the aperture is
 
 INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 diminished. Blank verse, too (he asserted), im- 
 ported into poetry a " disgusting solemnity of 
 manner " which was fatal to " agreeable trifling," 
 — an objection intimately connected with the feel- 
 ing which afterwards made him the champion on 
 the stage of character and humour. Among the 
 poets who were his contemporaries and immediate 
 predecessors, his likes and dislikes were strong. 
 He fretted at the fashion which Gray's Elegy set 
 in poetry ; he considered it a fine poem, but " over- 
 loaded with epithet," and he deplored the remote- 
 ness and want of emotion which distinguished the 
 Pindaric Odes. Yet from many indications in his 
 own writings, he seems to have genuinely appre- 
 ciated the work of Collins. Churchill, and 
 Churchill's satire, he detested. With Young he 
 had some personal acquaintance, and had atten- 
 tively read his Night Thoughts. Of the poets of the 
 last age, he admired Dryden, Pope and Gay, but 
 more than any of these, if imitation is to be re- 
 garded as the proof of sympathy, Prior, Addison 
 and Swift. By his inclinations and his training, 
 indeed, he belonged to this school. But he was 
 in advance of it in thinking that poetry, however 
 didactic after the fashion of his own day, should 
 be simple in its utterance and directed at the many 
 rather than the few. This is what he meant when, 
 from the critical elevation of Griffiths' back par- 
 lour, he recommended Gray to take the advice of 
 Isocrates, and " study the people." If, with these 
 ideas, he had been able to divest himself of the 
 " warbling groves " and " finny deeps " of the 
 Popesque vocabulary (of much of the more "mc-
 
 xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 chanic art " of that supreme artificer he did suc« 
 cessfully divest himself), it would have needed 
 but little to make him a prominent pioneer of the 
 new school which was coming with Cowper. As 
 it is, his poetical attitude is a little that inter- 
 mediate one of Longfellow's maiden — 
 
 " Standing, with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet." 
 
 Most of his minor and earlier pieces are imitative 
 In A New Simile, and The Logicians Refuted, 
 Swift is his acknowledged model ; in The Double 
 Transformation it is Prior, modified by certain 
 theories personal to himself. He was evidently 
 well acquainted with collections like the Mena- 
 giana, and with the French minor poets of the 
 eighteenth century, many of which latter were 
 among his books at his death. These he had 
 carefully studied, probably during his continental 
 wanderings, and from them he derives, like Prior, 
 much of his grace and metrical buoyancy. The 
 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, and Madam 
 Blaize, are both more or less constructed on the 
 old French popular song of the hero of Pavia, 
 Jacques de Chabannes, Seigneur de la Palice 
 (sometimes Galisse), with, in the] case of the 
 former, a tag from an epigram by Voltaire, the 
 original of which is in the Greek Anthology, though 
 Voltaire simply "conveyed " his version from an 
 anonymous French predecessor. Similarly the 
 lively stanzas To Iris, in Bozv Street, the lines 
 to Myra, the quatrain called A South American 
 Ode, and that On a Beautiful Youth struck blind
 
 INTRODUCTION. x ;jj 
 
 with Lightning, are all confessed or unconfessed 
 translations. It is possible that if Goldsmith had 
 lived to collect his own works, he would have 
 announced the source of his inspiration in these 
 instances as well as in one or two other cases — the 
 epitaph on Ned Purdon, for example, — where it has 
 been reserved to his editors to discover his obliga- 
 tions. On the other hand, he might havecontended, 
 with perfect justice, that whatever the soui - ce of his 
 ideas, he had made them his own when he got 
 them ; and certainly in lilt and lightness, the lines 
 To Iris are infinitely superior to those of La 
 Monnoye, on which they are based. But even a 
 fervent admirer may admit that, dwelling as he 
 did in this very vitreous palace of Gallic adaptation, 
 one does not expect to find him throwing stones at 
 Prior for borrowing from the French, or com- 
 menting solemnly in the life of Parnell upon the 
 heinousness of plagiarism. "It was the fashion," 
 he says, " with the wits of the last age, to conceal 
 the places from whence they took their hints or 
 their subjects. A trifling acknowledgment would 
 have made that lawful prize, which may now be 
 considered as plunder." He might judiciously 
 have added to this latter sentence the quotation 
 which he struck out of the second issue of the 
 Polite Learning, — " Hand inexpert its loauor." 
 
 Of his longer pieces, The Traveller was ap- 
 parently suggested to him by Addison's Letter 
 from Italy to Lord Halifax, a. poem to which, in 
 his preliminary notes to the Beauties of English 
 Poesy, he gives significant praise. "There is in 
 it," he says, "a strain of political thinking that 
 
 b
 
 xW INTRODUCTION 
 
 was, at that time, new in our poetry." He 
 obviously intended that The Traveller should be 
 admired for the same reason ; and both in that 
 poem and its successor, The Deserted Village, he 
 lays stress upon the political import of his work. 
 The one, we are told, is to illustrate the position 
 that the happiness of the subject is independent of 
 the goodness of the Sovereign ; the other, to 
 deplore the increase of luxury and the miseries of 
 depopulation. But, as a crowd of commentators 
 have pointed out, it is hazardous for a poet to 
 meddle with "political thinking," however much, 
 under George the Second, it may have been need- 
 ful to proclaim a serious purpose. If Goldsmith 
 had depended solely upon the professedly didactic 
 part of his attempt, his work would be as dead as 
 Freedom, or Sympathy, or any other of Dodsley's 
 forgotten quartos. Fortunately he did more than 
 this. Sensibly or insensibly, he suffused his work 
 with that philanthropy which is " not learned by 
 the royal road of tracts, and platform speeches, and 
 monthly magazines," but by personal commerce 
 with poverty and sorrow ; and he made his appeal 
 to that clinging love of country, of old association, 
 of "home-bred happiness," of innocent pleasure, 
 which, with Englishmen, is never made in vain. 
 Employing the couplet of Pope and Johnson, he 
 has added to his measure a suavity that belonged to 
 neither ; but the beauty of his humanity and the 
 tender melancholy of his wistful retrospect hold 
 us more strongly and securely than the studious 
 finish of his style. 
 
 ' ' Vingt foissur le metier remetlez voire ouvrage "
 
 WTR OD UC TION. x v 
 
 — said the arch-critic whose name, according to 
 Keats, the school of Pope displayed upon their 
 " decrepit standard." Even in The Traveller and 
 The Desei-ted Village, there are indications of 
 over-labour ; but in a poem which comes between 
 them — the once famous Edwin and Angelina — 
 Goldsmith certainly carried out Boileau's maxim 
 to the full. The first privately-printed version 
 differs considerably from that in the first edition 
 of the Vicar; this again is altered in the fourth; 
 and there are other variations in the piece as 
 printed in the Poems for Young Ladies. " As to 
 my 'Hermit '," said the poet complacently, " that 
 poem, Cradock, cannot be amended," and un- 
 doubtedly it has been skilfully wrought. But it is 
 impossible to look upon it now with the unpurged 
 eyes of those upon whom the Reliqiies of A ncient 
 Poetry had but recently dawned, still less to 
 endorse the verdict of Sir John Hawkins that "it 
 is one of the finest poems of the lyric kind that our 
 language has to boast of." Its over-soft prcttiness 
 is too much that of the chromo-lithograph or the 
 Parian bust (the porcelain, not the marble), and 
 its "beautiful simplicity" is in parts perilously 
 close upon that inanity which Johnson, whose 
 sturdy good sense not even friendship could silence, 
 declared to be the characteristic of much of Percy's 
 collection. It is instructive as a study of poetical 
 progress to contrast it with a ballad of our own 
 day in the same measure — the Talking Oak of 
 Tennyson. 
 
 The remaining poems of Goldsmith, excluding 
 the Captivity, and the admittedly occasional
 
 xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Threnodia Angitstalis, are not open to the charge 
 of fictitious simplicity, or of that hyper-elaboration, 
 which, in the words of the poet just mentioned, 
 makes for the "ripe and rotten." The gallery of 
 kit-cats in Retaliation, and the delightful bonhomie 
 of The Haunch of Venison need no commendation. 
 In kindly humour and not unkindlysatire Goldsmith 
 was at his best, and the imperishable portraits of 
 Burke and Garrick and Reynolds, and the in- 
 imitable dinner at which Lord Clare's pasty was 
 not, are as well known as any of the stock passages 
 of The Deserted Village or The Traveller, though 
 they have never been babbled " in extremis vicis" 
 by successive generations of schoolboys. It is 
 usually said, probably with truth, that in these 
 poems and the delightful Letter to Airs. Bnnbury, 
 Goldsmith's metre was suggested by the cantering 
 anapests of the Neiv Bath Guide, and it is to be 
 observed that ' ' Little Comedy's " letter of invita- 
 tion is to the same popular tune. But in annotating 
 this edition, some enquiries as to the song of Ally 
 Croaker mentioned in She Stoops to Conquer, elicited 
 the fact that a line of that once popular lyric — 
 
 " Too dull for a wit, too grave for a joker" — 
 has a kind of echo in the-r— 
 
 " Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit " — 
 
 of Burke's portrait in Retaliation. What is still 
 more remarkable is that Gray's Sketch of his own 
 Character, the resemblance of which to Gold- 
 smith has been pointed out by his editors, 
 begins — 
 
 "Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune."
 
 INTRODUCTION. xvii 
 
 Whether Goldsmith was thinking of Anstey or 
 Ally Croaker, it is at least worthy of passing notice 
 that an Irish song of no particular literary merit 
 should have succeeded in haunting the two fore- 
 most poets of their day. 
 
 III. 
 
 Poetry brought Goldsmith fame, but money 
 only indirectly. Those Saturnian days of the 
 subscription-edition, when Pope and Gay and 
 Prior counted their gains by thousands, were over 
 and gone. He had arrived, it has been weli said, 
 too late for the Patron, and too early for the 
 Public. Of his lighter pieces the best were post- 
 humous ; the rest were either paid for at hack 
 prices or not at all. For The Descried Village 
 Griffin gave him a hundred guineas, a sum so un- 
 exampled as to have prompted the pleasant legend 
 that he returned it. For The Traveller the only 
 payment that can be definitely traced is £2.1. " 1 
 cannot afford to court the draggle-tail Muses," 
 he said laughingly to Lord Lisburn, " they would 
 let me starve ; but by my other labours I can make 
 shift to eat, and drink, and have good clothes/' 
 It was in his "other labours" that his poems 
 helped him. The booksellers who would not or 
 could not remunerate him adequately for delayed 
 production and minute revision, were willing 
 enough to secure the sanction of his name for 
 humbler journey-work. If he was ill-paid for The 
 Traveller, he was not ill-paid for the Beauties of 
 English Poesy ox the History of Animated Nature. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding his ready pen, and his skill
 
 xviii I XT ROD UC TION. 
 
 as a compiler, his life was a metier de forcat. 
 "While you are nibbling about elegant phrases, I 
 am obliged to write half a volume," — he told his 
 friend Cradock ; and it was but natural that he 
 should desire to escape into walks where he might 
 accomplish something "for his own hand," by 
 which, at the same time, he might exist. Fiction 
 he had already essayed. Nearly two years before 
 The Traveller appeared, he had written a story 
 about the length of Joseph Andrews, for which he 
 had received little more than a third of the sum 
 paid by Andrew Millar to Fielding for his burlesque 
 of Richardson's Pamela. But obscure circum- 
 stances delayed the publication of the Vic r of 
 Wakefield for four years, and when at last it was 
 issued, its first burst of success — a success, as far 
 as can be ascertained, productive of no further 
 profit to its author— was followed by a long period 
 during which the sales were languid and uncertain. 
 There remained the stage, with its two-fold allure- 
 ment of fame and fortune, both payable at sight, 
 added to which it was always possible that a 
 popular play, in those days when plays were 
 bought to read, might find a brisk market in book 
 form. The prospect was a tempting one, and it 
 is scarcely surprising that Goldsmith, weary of 
 the "dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood," and 
 conscious of better things within him, should en- 
 gage in that most tantalizing of all enterprises, the 
 pursuit of dramatic success. 
 
 For acting and actors he had always shown a 
 decided partiality. 1 Vague stories, based, in all 
 
 I This is not inconsistent with the splenetic utterances ia
 
 INTRODUCTION'. xix 
 
 probability, upon the references to strolling players 
 in his writings, hinted that he himself had once 
 worn the comic sock as "Scrub" in The Beaux' 
 Stratagem ; and it is clear that soon after he 
 arrived in England, he had completed a tragedy, 
 for he read it in manuscript to a friend. That he 
 had been besides an acute and observant playgoer, 
 is plain from his excellent account in The Bee of 
 Mademoiselle Clairon, whom he had seen at 
 Paris, and from his sensible notes in the same 
 periodical on " gestic lore " as exhibited on the 
 English stage. In his Polite Learning in Europe, 
 he had followed up Ralph's Case of Authors by 
 Profession, by protesting against the despotism of 
 managers, and the unenlightened but economical 
 policy of producing only the works of deceased 
 playwrights ; and he was equally opposed to the 
 growing tendency on the part of the public — a ten- 
 dency dating from Richardson and the French 
 comedie larmoyante — to substitute sham sensibility 
 and superficial refinement for that humorous de- 
 lineation of manners, which, with all their errors 
 of morality and taste, had been the chief aim of 
 Congreve and his contemporaries. To the fact 
 that what was now known as "genteel comedy" 
 had almost wholly supplanted this elder and better 
 
 the letters to Daniel Hodson, first made public in the " Great 
 Writers" Life of Goldsmith, where he speaks of the stage 
 as " an abominable resource which neither became a man 
 of honour, nor a man of sense." Those letters were written 
 when the production of The Good-Naturd Man had supplied 
 him with abundant practical evidence of the vexations and 
 difficulties of theatrical ambition,.
 
 xx INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 manner, must be attributed his deferred entry upon 
 a field so obviously adapted to his gifts. But 
 when, in 1766, the Clandestine Marriage ofGarrick 
 and Colman, with its evergreen "Lord Ogleby," 
 seemed to herald a return to the side of laughter 
 as opposed to that of tears, he took heart of grace, 
 and, calling to mind something of the old incon- 
 siderate benevolence which had been the Gold- 
 smith family-failing, set about his first comedy, 
 The Good-Nat ur\i Man. 
 
 Even without experiment, no one could have 
 known better than Goldsmith, upon what a sea of 
 troubles he had embarked. Those obstacles which, 
 more than thirty years before, had been so graphi- 
 cally described in Fielding's Pasquin, — which 
 Goldsmith himself had indicated with equal accu- 
 racy in his earliest book, still lay in the way of all 
 dramatic purpose, and he was to avoid none of 
 them. When he submitted his completed work 
 to Garrick, the all-powerful actor, who liked 
 neither piece nor author, blew hot and cold so 
 long, that Goldsmith at last, in despair, transferred 
 it to Colman. But, as if fate was inexorable, 
 Colman, after accepting it effusively, also grew 
 dilatory, and ultimately entered into a tacit league 
 with Garrick not to produce it at Covent Garden 
 until his former rival had brought out at Drury 
 Lane a comedy by Goldsmith's countryman, Hugh 
 Kelly, a sentimentalist of the first water. Upon 
 the heels of the enthusiastic reception which 
 Garrick's administrative tact secured for the 
 superfine imbroglios of False Delicacy, came limp- 
 ing The Good-Naiurd Man of Goldsmith, wet.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxi 
 
 blanketed beforehand by a sententious prologue 
 from Johnson. No debilt could have been less 
 favourable. Until it was finally saved in the 
 fourth act by the excellent art of Shuter, its fate 
 hung trembling in the balance, and even then one 
 of its scenes — not afterwards reckoned the worst 
 — had to be withdrawn in deference to the delicate 
 scruples of an audience which could not suffer 
 such inferior beings as bailiffs to come between 
 the wind and its gentility. Yet, in spite of all 
 these disadvantages, The GooJ-Naturd Man 
 obtained a hearing, besides bringing its author 
 about five hundred pounds, a sum far larger than 
 anything he had ever made by poetry or fiction. 
 
 That the superior success of False Delicacy, with 
 its mincing morality and jumble of inadequate 
 motive, was wholly temporary and accidental, is 
 evident from the fact that, to use a felicitous phrase, 
 it has now to be disinterred in order to be dis- 
 cussed. But, notwithstanding one's instinctive 
 sympathy for Goldsmith in his struggles with the 
 managers, it is not equally clear that, everything 
 considered, The Good-Nat 'ur\l Matt was unfairly 
 treated by the public. Because Kelly's play was 
 praised too much, it by no means follows that 
 Goldsmith's play was praised too little. With all 
 the advantage of its author's reputation, it has 
 never since passed into the repertoire, and, if it 
 had something of the freshness of a first effort, it 
 had also its inexperience. The chief character, 
 Honey wood — the weak and amiable " good- 
 natur'd man" — never stands very firmly on his 
 feet, and the first actor, Garrick's promising young
 
 xxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 rival, Powell, failed, or disdained to make it a 
 stage creation. On the other hand, "Croaker," 
 an admitted elaboration of Johnson's sketch of 
 " Suspirius " in the Rambler, is a first-rate comic 
 character, and the charlatan "Lofty," a sort of 
 "Beau-Tibbs-above-Stairs," is almost as good. 
 But, as Garrick's keen eye saw, to have a second 
 male figure of greater importance than the central 
 personage was a serious error of judgment, added 
 to which neither "Miss Richland" nor "Mrs. 
 Croaker " ever establish any hold upon the 
 audience. Last of all, the plot, such as it is, 
 cannot be described as either particularly in- 
 genious or particularly novel. In another way, 
 the merit of the piece is, however, incontestable. 
 It is written with all the perspicuous grace of 
 Goldsmith's easy pen, and, in the absence of 
 stage-craft, sparkles with neat and effective epi- 
 grams. One of these may be mentioned as illus- 
 trating the writer's curious (perhaps unconscious) 
 habit of repeating ideas which had pleased him. 
 lie had quoted in his Polite Learning the exqui- 
 sitely rhythmical close of Sir William Temple's 
 prose essay on "Poetry," and in The Bee it still 
 seems to haunt him. In Tlie G ood- Natter 1 d Alan 
 he has absorbed it altogether, for he places it, 
 without inverted commas, in the lips of Croaker. 
 
 But, if its lack of constructive power and its 
 errors of conception make it impossible to regard 
 The Good-Nalur'd Man as a substantial gain to 
 humorous drama, it was undoubtedly a formid- 
 able attack upon that " mawkish drab of spurious 
 tuccd," Sentimental Comedy, and its success was
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxiii 
 
 amply sufficient to justify a second trial. That 
 Goldsmith did not forthwith make this renewed 
 effort must be attributed partly to the recollection 
 of his difficulties in getting his first play produced, 
 partly to the fact that, his dramatic gains ex- 
 hausted, he was almost immediately involved in a 
 sequence of laborious taskwork. Still, he had 
 never abandoned his ambition to restore humour 
 and character to the stage ; and as time went on, 
 the sense of his past discouragements grew fainter, 
 while the success of The Deserted Village increased 
 his importance as an author. Sentimentalism, in 
 the meantime, had still a majority. Kelly, it is 
 true, was now no longer to be feared. His sudden 
 good fortune had swept him into the ranks of the 
 party-writers, with the result that the damning of 
 his next play, A Word to the Wise, had been 
 exaggerated into a political necessity. But the 
 school which he represented had been recruited by 
 a much abler man, Richard Cumberland, and it 
 was probably the favourable reception of Cumber- 
 land's West Indian that stimulated Goldsmith 
 into striking one more blow for legitimate comedy. 
 At all events, in the autumn of the year in which 
 The West Indian was produced, he is hard at 
 work in the lanes at Hendon and Edgwarc, 
 "studying jests with a most tragical countenance" 
 for a successor to The Good-JVaturd Man. 
 
 To the modern spectator of She Stoops to Con- 
 quer, with its unflagging humour and bustling 
 action, it must seem almost inconceivable that its 
 stage qualities can ever have been questioned. Yet 
 questioned they undoubtedly were, and Goldsmith,
 
 xxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 was spared none of his former humiliations. Even 
 from the outset, all was against him. His dif- 
 ferences with Garrick had long been adjusted, 
 and the Drury Lane manager would now probably 
 have accepted a new play from his pen, especially 
 as that astute observer had already detected signs 
 of a reaction in the public taste. But Goldsmith 
 was morally bound to Colman and Covent 
 Garden ; and Colman, in whose hands he placed 
 his manuscript, proved even more disheartening 
 and unmanageable than Garrick had been in the 
 past. Before he had come to his decision, the 
 close of 1772 had arrived. Early in the following 
 year, under the irritation of suspense and suggested 
 amendments combined, Goldsmith hastily trans- 
 ferred his proposal to Garrick ; but, by Johnson's 
 advice, as hastily withdrew it. Only by the 
 express interposition of Johnson was Colman at 
 last induced to make a distinct promise to bring 
 out the play at a specific date. To believe in it, 
 he could not be persuaded, and his contagious 
 anticipations of its failure passed insensibly to the 
 actors, who, one after the other, shuffled out of 
 their parts. Even over the epilogue there were 
 vexatious disputes, and when at last, in March, 
 1773, She Stoops to Compter was acted, its jeime 
 premier had previously held no more exalted 
 position than that of ground-harlequin, while one 
 of its most prominent characters had simply been 
 a post-boy in The Good-Naltird Man. But once 
 fairly upon the boards neither lukewarm actors 
 nor an adverse manager had any further influence 
 over it, and the doubts of everyone vanished in
 
 TXTRODUCTION. xxv 
 
 the uninterrupted applause of the audience. 
 When, a few days later, it was printed with a 
 brief and grateful dedication to its best friend, 
 Johnson, the world already knew with certainty 
 that a fresh masterpiece had been added to the 
 roll of English Dramatic Literature, and that 
 " genteel comedy " had received a decisive blow. 
 The effect of this blow, it must be admitted, 
 had been aided not a little by the appearance, 
 only a week or two earlier, of Foote's clever 
 puppet-show of The Handsome Housemaid ; or, 
 Piety in Pattens, which was openly directed at 
 Kelly and his following. But ridicule by itself, 
 without some sample of a worthier substitute, 
 could not have sufficed to displace a persistent 
 fashion. This timely antidote She Stoops to Con- 
 quer, in the most unmistakable way, afforded. 
 From end to end of the piece there is not a 
 sickly or a maudlin word. Even Sheridan, 
 writing The Rivals two years later, thought it 
 politic to insert " Faulkland " and "Julia" for 
 the benefit of the sentimentalists. Goldsmith 
 made no such concession, and his wholesome 
 hearty merriment put to flight the Comedy of Tears, 
 — even as the Coquecigrues vanished before the 
 large-lunged laugh of Pantagruel. If, as Johnson 
 feared, his plot bordered slightly upon farce — - 
 and of what good comedy may this not be said ? — 
 at least it can be urged that its most farcical in- 
 cident, the mistaking of a gentleman's house for an 
 inn, had really happened, since it had happened to 
 the writer himself. But the superfine objections 
 of Walpole and his friends are now ancient
 
 xxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 history, — history so ancient that it is scarcely 
 credited, while Goldsmith's manly assertion (after 
 Fielding) of the author's right "to stoop among 
 the low to copy nature," has been ratified by 
 successive generations of novelists and play- 
 wrights. What is beyond dispute is the healthy 
 atmosphere, the skilful setting, the lasting fresh- 
 ness and fidelity to human nature of the persons of 
 his drama. Not content with the finished portraits 
 of the Hardcastles (a Vicar and Mrs. Primrose 
 promoted to the squirearchy), — not content with the 
 incomparable and unapproachable Tony, the author 
 has managed to make attractive what is too often 
 insipid, his heroines and their lovers. Miss 
 Ilardcastle and Miss Neville are not only charm- 
 ing young women, but charming characters, while 
 Marlow and Hastings are much more than stage 
 young men. And let it be remembered — it 
 cannot be too often remembered — that in re- 
 turning to those Farquhars and Vanbrughs "of 
 the last age," who differed so widely from the 
 Kellys and Cumberlands of his own, Gold- 
 smith has brought back no taint of their baser 
 part. Depending solely for its avowed inten- 
 tion to " make an audience merry," upon the 
 simple development of its humorous incident, 
 his play (wonderful to relate !) attains its end 
 without resorting to impure suggestion or equi- 
 vocal intrigue. Indeed, there is but one married 
 woman in the piece, and she traverses it without 
 a stain upon her character. 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer is Goldsmith's last 
 dramatic work, for the trifling sketch of The 
 Grumbler had never more than a grateful purpose.
 
 INTK ODUC TION. xxvii 
 
 When, only a year later, the little funeral pro- 
 cession from 2, Brick Court laid him in his un- 
 known grave in the Temple burying-ground, the 
 new comedy of which he had written so hopefully 
 to Garrick was still non-existent. Would it have 
 been better than its last fortunate predecessor ?— 
 would those early reserves of memory and ex- 
 perience have still proved inexhaustible ? The 
 question cannot be answered. Through debt, 
 and drudgery, and depression, the writer's genius 
 had still advanced, and these might yet have 
 proved powerless to check his progress. But at 
 least it was given to him to end upon his best, 
 and not to outlive it. For, in that critical sense 
 which estimates the value of a work by its ex- 
 cellence at all points, it can scarcely be contested 
 that She Stoops to Conquer is his best production. 
 In spite of their beauty and humanity, the lasting 
 quality of The Traveller and The Deserted I 'illage 
 is seriously prejudiced by his half-way attitude 
 between the poetry of convention and the poetry 
 of nature — between the gradus epithet of Pope 
 and the direct vocabulary of Wordsworth. With 
 The Vicar of Wakefield, again, immortal though it 
 be, it is less his art that holds us, than his charm, 
 his humour and his tenderness which tempt us to 
 forget his inconsistency and his errors of haste. In 
 She Stoops to Conquer, neither defect of art nor 
 defect of nature forbid us to give unqualified 
 admiration to a work which lapse of time has 
 shown to be still unrivalled in its kind. 
 
 Austin Dodson. 
 Ealing, W. 
 
 February, 1SS9.
 
 THE TRAVELLER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 ^Qffj^
 
 [The Traveller, or a Prospect of Society. A Poem. 
 Inscribed to the Rev. Mr. Henry Goldsmith. By Oliver 
 Goldsmith, M.B.— was first published by John Newbery 
 of St. Paul's Church-yard, in a 4to. of thirty pages, on the 
 19th December, 1764. The title-page of the book (as given 
 above) was dated 1765, and the price was is. 6d. Up to the 
 sixth edition of 1770 numerous alterations were made in the 
 text by the author. The poem is here reprinted from the 
 ninth edition issued in 1774, the year of Goldsmith's death.]
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 1 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 AM sensible that the friendship between 
 us can acquire no new force from the 
 ceremonies of a Dedication ; and per- 
 haps it demands an excuse thus to prefix 
 your name to my attempts, which you decline giv- 
 ing with your own. But as a part of this Poem 
 was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the 
 whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed 
 to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts 
 of it, when the reader understands, that it is ad- 
 dressed to a man, who, despising Fame and For- 
 tune, has retired early to Happiness and Obscurity, 
 with an income of forty pounds a year. 
 
 I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of 
 your humble choice. You have entered upon a 
 sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the 
 labourers are but few ; while you have left the 
 
 P Goldsmith's eldest brother. lie died in May, 1768, 
 being then curate of Kilkenny West.]
 
 4 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 field of Ambition, where the labourers are many, 
 and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of 
 all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of 
 the times, from different systems of criticism, and 
 from the divisions of party, that which pursues 
 poetical fame is the wildest. 
 
 Poetry makes a principal amusement among 
 unpolished nations ; but in a country verging to 
 the extremes of refinement, Painting and Music 
 come in for a share. As these offer the feeble 
 mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first 
 rival Poetry, and at length supplant her ; they en- 
 gross all that favour once shown to her, and though 
 but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth- 
 right. 
 
 Yet, however this art may be neglected by the 
 powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mis- 
 taken efforts of the learned to improve it. What 
 criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of 
 blank verse, and Pindaric odes, choruses, ana- 
 pests and iambics, alliterative care and happy 
 negligence ! Every absurdity has now a cham- 
 pion to defend it ; and as he is generally much in 
 the wrong, so he has always much to say ; for 
 error is ever talkative. 
 
 But there is an enemy to this art still more dan- 
 gerous, I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the 
 judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind 
 is once infected with this disease, it can only find 
 pleasure in what contributes to increase the dis- 
 temper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from 
 pursuing man after having once preyed upon human 
 flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appe-
 
 DEDICA TION. S 
 
 tite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most 
 agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such 
 readers generally admire some half-witted thing, 
 who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost 
 the character of a wise one. Him they dignify 
 with the name of poet ; his tawdry lampoons arc 
 called satires, his turbulence is said to be force, and 
 his phrenzy fire. 1 
 
 What reception a Poem may find, which has 
 neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support 
 it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My 
 aims are right. Without espousing the cause of 
 any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage 
 of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there 
 may be equal happiness in states, that are dif- 
 ferently governed from our own ; that every state 
 has a particular principle of happiness, and that 
 this principle in each may be carried to a mis- 
 chievous excess. There are few can judge, better 
 than yourself, how far these positions are illustrated 
 in this Poem. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 Your most affectionate Brother, 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 [1 Charles Churchill, the satirist (1731-64), is undoubtedly 
 intended here.]
 
 THE TRAVELLER; 
 
 OR, 
 A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 
 
 EMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
 Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering 
 
 Po; 
 Or onward, where the rude Carinthian 
 boor, 
 Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 A weary waste expanding to the skies : 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
 My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; 
 Still to my Brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 1 
 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attend : 
 Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire ; 
 Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, 
 
 [ l Cf. The Citizen of the World, 1762, i. 5. (Letter iii.)]
 
 8. POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
 
 Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, 
 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 
 And learn the luxury of doing good. 
 
 But me, not destin'd such delights to share, 
 My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care, 
 Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; ' 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
 And find no spot of all the world my own. 
 
 Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And, plac'd on high above the storm's career, 
 Look downward where an hundred realms appear ; 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
 Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ? 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good, which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
 
 [' Cf. The Vicar of Wakeful J, 1766, ii. 160-1 (ch. x).]
 
 ' THE TRAVELLER. 9 
 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 
 Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour 
 
 crown'd, 
 Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round, 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, 
 Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale, 
 For me your tributary stores combine ; 
 Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 
 
 As some lone miser visiting his store, 
 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts it o'er ; 
 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
 
 Pleas'd with each good that heaven to man supplies : 
 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 
 And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
 
 Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
 
 Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, 
 
 May gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd. 
 
 But where to find that happiest spot below, 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
 The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
 The naked negro, panting at the line, 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
 And thanks his Gods for all the good they gave, 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
 
 io POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 His first, best country ever is, at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
 And estimate the blessings which they share, 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind, 
 As different good, by Art or Nature given, 
 To different nations makes their blessings even. 
 
 Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
 Still grants her bliss at Labour's earnest call ; 
 With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Idra's x cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
 And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
 These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
 From Art more various are the blessings sent ; 
 Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. 
 Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails, 
 And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
 Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone, 
 Conforms and models life to that alone. 
 Each to the favourite happiness attends, 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
 Till, carried to excess in each domain, 
 This favourite good begets peculiar pain. 
 
 But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
 And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
 Here for a while my proper cares resign'd, 
 
 [ l Bolton Corney thought Idria in Carniola intended 
 Birkbeck Hill suggests Lake Idro in North Italy which has 
 rocky shores.]
 
 THE TRAVELLER. n 
 
 Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind, 
 Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, 
 That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 
 
 Far to the right where Apennine ascends, 
 Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
 While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 
 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
 Whatever fruits in different climes were found, 
 That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives that blossom but to die ; 
 These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 
 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
 And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
 Contrasted faults through all his manners reign, 
 Though poor, luxurious, though submissive, vain, 
 Though grave, yet trifling, zealous, yet untrue ; 
 And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
 All evils here contaminate the mind,
 
 12 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 
 For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, 
 
 When commerce proudly flourish'd through the 
 
 state ; 
 At her command the palace learn 'd to rise, 
 Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; 
 The canvas glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm, 
 The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form ; 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
 Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
 While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, 
 But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave ; 
 And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 1 
 
 Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
 The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade ; 
 Processions form'd for piety and love, 
 A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, 
 The sports of children satisfy the child ; 2 
 Each nobler aim, represt by long control, 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
 As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, 
 
 [1 Cf. The Citizen of the World, 17C2, i. 98. (Letter xxv.)] 
 [2 A pretty anecdote a-propos of this couplet is told in 
 Foster's Life, 1871, i. pp. 347-8-]
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 13 
 
 Defac'd by time and tottering in decay, 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed, 
 And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 
 My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormymansions tread, 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 
 No product here the barren hills afford, 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
 But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May ; 
 No Zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, 
 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though 
 
 small, 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
 Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose, 
 Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
 With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
 Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep ; 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
 
 i 4 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And drags the struggling savage ' into day. 
 At night returning, every labour sped, 
 I le sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 
 While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
 And hrply too some pilgrim, thither led, 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 
 Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart, 
 And even those ills, that round his mansion rise, 
 Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
 Such are the charms to barren states assign'd ; 
 Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd. 
 Yet let them only share the praises due, 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
 For every want that stimulates the breast 
 Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
 Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
 That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
 Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
 
 [1 i.e. wolf or bear. Pope uses the word several times in 
 this sense.]
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 IS 
 
 To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
 Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
 Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
 Their level life is but a smould'ring fire, 
 Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ; 
 Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
 On some high festival of once a year, 
 In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
 Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 
 
 But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow : 
 Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low, 
 For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
 Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run ; 
 And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 
 Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
 May sit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest ; 
 But all the gentler morals, such as play 
 Through life's more cultur'd walks and charm the 
 
 way, 
 These far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly, 
 To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
 I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
 Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
 Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
 With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire P 1 
 
 [' i.e. in his pedestrian travels on the continent in 1755 6 
 Cf. The Vicar of Wakefield, i 7 C6, ii., 24-5 (ch. i).]
 
 i6 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
 And freshen' d from the wave the Zephyr flew ; 
 And haply, though my harsh touch faltering still, 
 But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; 
 Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
 And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
 Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
 And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 1 
 lias frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore. 
 
 So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display, 
 Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
 Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
 For honour forms the social temper here : 
 Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
 Or even imaginary worth obtains, 
 Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
 It shifts in splendid traffic round the land : 
 From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
 They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem, 
 Till, seeming bless'd, they grow to what they seem. 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
 It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
 For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 
 And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
 Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
 
 ]} i.e. traditional gestures or action.]
 
 THE TRAVELLER. i 7 
 
 Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
 Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
 Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
 Nor -weighs the solid worth of self- applause. 
 
 . To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
 Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
 Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
 And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
 Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
 The firm-connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar, 
 Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
 While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile, 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
 A new creation rescu'd from his reign. 
 
 Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
 Impels the native to repeated toil, 
 Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
 And industry begets a love of gain. 
 Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
 Are here displayed. Their much-lov'd wealth 
 imparts 
 
 c
 
 1 3 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
 But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 
 Even liberty itself is barter'd here. 
 At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
 The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 1 
 Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, 2 
 And calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
 
 Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
 Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
 How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 
 
 Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
 And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
 Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
 And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes 3 glide. 
 There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
 There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd, 
 Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
 Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 
 With daring aims irregularly great, 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 I see the lords of human kind pass by, 
 Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
 By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand ; 
 
 [' This line occurs as prose in The Citizen of the World, 
 1762, i., 147. (Letter xxxiv. )] 
 P Julius Cersar, Act i., Sc. 2.] 
 [ 3 Fabulosus Hydaspes, Hor. Bk. i., Ode 22.]
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 15 
 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
 
 True to imagin'd right, above control, 
 
 While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
 
 And learns to venerate himself as man. 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd 
 here, 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
 Too bless'd, indeed, were such without alloy, 
 But foster'd even by Freedom ills annoy : 
 That independence Britons prize too high, 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknow n ; 
 Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. 
 Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
 Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore 
 Till over-wrought, the general system feels 
 Its motions stop, or phrenzy fire the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
 Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
 Till time may come, when stripp'd of all her 
 
 charms, 
 The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
 Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
 Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for 
 
 fame,
 
 2o POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 
 
 Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I stale, 
 I mean to natter kings, or court the great ; 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun, 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
 I only would repress them to secure : 
 For just experience tells, in every soil, 
 That those who think must govern those that toil ; 
 And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
 Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 
 O then how blind to all that truth requires, 
 Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
 Except when fast-approaching danger warms : 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
 Contracting regal power to stretch their own, 1 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
 Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; '-' 
 
 t 1 Cf. The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766, i., 202 (ch. xix).] 
 [- Ibid, i., 206 (ch. xix).]
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 21 
 
 The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
 
 Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; 
 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
 
 Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 
 I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 1 
 
 Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, 
 When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
 And thus polluting honour in its source, 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,' 2 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore? 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
 Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ; 
 Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
 Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
 And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 In barren solitary pomp repose ? 
 Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call, 
 The smiling long- frequented village fall ? 
 Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 
 The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
 Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, 
 To traverse climes beyond the western main ; 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
 And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound ? 
 
 Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 
 f 1 Cf. The Vicar of 'Wakefield, 1766, i., 201 (ch. xix).] 
 [- This and the lines that follow contain the germ of The 
 Deserted Village.}
 
 22 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Through tangled forests, and through dangerous 
 
 ways ; 
 Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
 And the brown Indian marks with murderous 
 
 aim ; 
 There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
 And all around distressful yells arise, 
 The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 1 
 Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
 And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. 
 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
 Why have I stray 'd from pleasure and repose, 
 To seek a good each government bestows ? 
 In every government, though terrors reign, 
 Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
 How small, of all that human hearts endure, 2 
 That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. 
 Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
 Our own felicity we make or find : 
 With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
 Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 The lifted axe, the agonising wheel, 
 Luke's iron crown, 3 and Damiens' bed of steel, 4 
 
 [ l Johnson contributed this line. (Birkbeck Hill's Boszveli, 
 1887, ii. 6.)] 
 
 [ 2 Johnson wrote these last lines, the penultimate couplet 
 excepted. (Boswell, ut supra.)\ 
 
 [ 3 George (not Luke) Dosa, an Hungarian patriot, suffered 
 in 1514 the penalty of the red-hot iron crown.] 
 
 [* Damiens was executed after horrible tortures for an
 
 THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 23 
 
 To men remote from power but rarely known, 
 Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 
 
 attempt to assassinate Louis XV. When in the Conciergerie 
 he was chained to an iron bed. (Smollett's History of 
 England, 1S23, bk. iii., ch. 7, § xxv).]
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE, 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 r
 
 [The Deserted Village, a Poem. By Dr. Goldsmith, 
 ■ — was published by W. Griffin, at Garrick's Head, in 
 Catherine-street, Strand, in a 4to. of thirty two pages, on 
 the 26th May, 1770. Theprice was two shillings. It is here 
 reprinted from the fourth edition, issued in the same year 
 as the first, but considerably revised.]
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 CAN have no expectations in an address 
 of this kind, either to add to your re- 
 putation, or to establish my own. You 
 can gain nothing from my admiration, 
 as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said 
 to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity of 
 your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry 
 than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to 
 which I never paid much attention, I must be in- 
 dulged at present in following my affections. The 
 only dedication I ever made was to my brother, 
 because I loved him better than most other men. 
 He is since dead. 1 Permit me to inscribe this 
 Poem to you. 
 
 How far you may be pleased with the versifica- 
 tion and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I 
 don't pretend to enquire ; but I know you will 
 object (and indeed several of our best and wisest 
 
 [} See p. 3, and note.]
 
 23 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 friends concur in the opinion) that the depopula- 
 tion it deplores is no where to be seen, and the 
 disorders it laments are only to be found in the 
 poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce 
 make any other answer than that I sincerely be- 
 lieve what I have written ; that I have taken all 
 possible pains, in my country excursions, for these 
 four or five years past, to be certain of what I 
 allege ; and that all my views and enquiries have 
 led me to believe those miseries real, which I here 
 attempt to display. But this is not the place to 
 enter into an enquiry, whether the country be de- 
 populating, or not ; the discussion would take up 
 much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an 
 indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long 
 preface when 1 want his unfatigued attention to a 
 long poem. 
 
 In regretting the depopulation of the country, I 
 inveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and 
 here also I expect the shout of modern politicians 
 against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it 
 has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of 
 the greatest national advantages ; and all the wis- 
 dom of antiquity in that particular, as erroneous. 
 Still however, I must remain a professed ancient 
 on that head, and continue to think those luxuries 
 prejudicial to states, by which so many vices are 
 introduced, and so many kingdoms have been un- 
 done. 1 Indeed so much has been poured out of 
 late on the other side of the question, that, merely 
 
 [l The increase of luxury was a favourite topic with Gold- 
 smith. (Cf. Birkbeck Hill's Boswell, 1887, ii., 217-8.)]
 
 DEDICA TION. 
 
 29 
 
 for (.lie sake of novelty and variety, one would 
 sometimes wish to be in the right. 
 I am, Dear Sir, 
 Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, 
 Oliver Goldsmith.
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 WEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the 
 
 plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheer'd the 
 
 labouring swain, 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd : 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of my youth, 1 when every sport could please, 
 How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ; 
 How often have I paus'd on every charm, 
 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
 The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring 
 
 hill, 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ; 
 How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train, from labour free, 
 
 f 1 Some of the details of the picture are borrowed from 
 Lissoy, the little hamlet in Westmeath where the author 
 spent his younger days.]
 
 32 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old survey'd ; 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
 
 round ; 
 And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd, 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd ; 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 
 The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 
 The matron's glance that would those looks re- 
 prove : 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ; sports like 
 
 these, 
 With sweet succession, taught even toil to please ; 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 
 
 shed, 
 These were thy charms — But all these charms are 
 fled. 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain : 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
 But chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way. 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 33 
 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; L 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
 Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
 For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
 Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more : 
 His best companions, innocence and health ; 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose 
 And every want to opulence allied, 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
 Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful 
 
 scene, 
 Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green ; 
 
 t 1 Cf. Bewick's Water Birds, 1847, p. 49.] 
 D
 
 34 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here as I take my solitary rounds, 
 Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, 
 And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 1 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close, 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose. 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 And, as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations pass'd, 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 2 
 
 O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
 How happy he who crowns in shades like these, 
 
 [1 There is no satisfactory evidence that Goldsmith ever 
 revisited Ireland after he left it in 1752.] 
 [2 Cf. The Citizen of the World, 1762, ii., 153. (Letter C.)]
 
 THE DESERTED VI LI, ACE. 35 
 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
 No surly porter stands in guilty state 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
 Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
 While Resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His Heaven commences ere the world be pass'd ! ' 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
 The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; 
 The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 The playful children just let loose from school ; 
 The watchdog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring 
 
 wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 
 [1 Under the title of Resignation, Reynolds in 1772 dedi- 
 cated a print of an old man to Goldsmith as " expressing 
 the character " sketched in this paragraph.]
 
 36 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
 All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
 She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 1 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden 
 smil'd, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 2 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 3 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had chang'cl, nor wished to change his 
 
 place ; 
 Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
 More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain ; 
 The long remember'd beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 
 [1 This has been identified with Catherine Geraghty, a 
 familiar personage at Lissoy in Goldsmith's boyhood.] 
 
 [2 The character that follows is probably combined from 
 the author's father, his brother Henry, and his uncle 
 Contarine, all clergymen. 1 
 
 [3 See p. 3.]
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 37 
 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were 
 
 won. 
 Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learned to 
 
 glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side ; 
 But in his, duty prompt at every call, 
 He watch 'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all. 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
 Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to rais^, 
 And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
 
 3 8 rOEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The service pass'd, around the pious man, 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 Even children follow'd with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's 
 
 smile. 
 I lis ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 
 Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares dis- 
 
 tress'd ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
 
 spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 1 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school ; 2 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 
 [1 Chaulieu, Chapelnin, and several "ancients" have been 
 credited with the suggestion of this simile. But perhaps 
 Goldsmith went no farther than the character of "Philander" 
 in Young's Complaint (Night the Second, 1742, p. 42).] 
 
 [ 2 Some of the traits of this portrait correspond with those 
 of Goldsmith's master at Lissoy, one Byrne.]
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 3g 
 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd ; 
 Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
 The village all declar'd how much he knew ; 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 And even the story ran that he could gauge. 
 In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, 
 For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thundering 
 
 sound 
 Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around, 
 And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 "Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 
 
 inspir'd, 
 "Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks pro- 
 found, 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 
 The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
 The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
 A Led by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
 
 40 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The twelve good rules, 1 the royal game of goose ; * 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ; 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
 Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
 
 Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the wood-man's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
 Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd : 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 
 [ l The well-known maxims " found in the study of King 
 Charles the First, of Blessed Memory," and common in 
 Goldsmith's day as a broadside.] 
 
 [ 2 See Strutt's Sports and Pastimes, Bk. iv. ch. 2 (xxv).]
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 41 
 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth array 'd, 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
 And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 Hoards, even beyond the miser's wish abound, 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
 Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their 
 
 growth, 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
 While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female unadorn'd and plain, 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
 Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,
 
 i2 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes : 
 But when those charms are pass'd, for charms arc 
 
 frail, 
 When time advances and when lovers fail, 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 While, scourg'd by famine, from the smiling land 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
 The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 
 
 Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
 lie drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped — What waits him there? 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; 
 To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
 Extorted from his fellow creature's woe. 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps 
 
 display, 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 4 t 
 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight 
 
 reign 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ?— Ah, turn thine 
 
 eyes 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 1 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd, 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd ; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
 Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 
 And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the 
 
 shower, 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest 
 train, 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
 
 Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
 
 [1 Cf. The Bcc, 27 October, 1759 {A City Night-Piece).]
 
 44 POEMS OP GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Where wild Altama l murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charm 'd before, 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 
 Far different these from every former scene, 
 The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that 
 
 parting day, 
 That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd, 
 Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their 
 
 last, 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
 And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
 The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
 
 f 1 Alatamaha, in Georgia, North America]
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 45 
 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O luxury ! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree, 
 How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own ; 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
 Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 Even now the devastation is begun, 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land : 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care,
 
 46 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
 And piety with wishes plac'd above, 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; 
 Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
 Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell, and Oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
 On Torno's x cliffs, or Pambamarca's - side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
 Aid slighted truth ; with thy persuasive strain 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, 
 Though very poor, may still be very bless'd ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 3 
 
 [1 Tornea, a river falling into the Gulf of Bothnia.] 
 [ 2 A mountain near Quito, South America.] 
 [3 Johnson wrote the last four lines. (Birkbeck Hill's 
 Boszvell, 1887, ii. 7.)]
 
 RETALIATION, 
 
 A POEM.
 
 [Retaliation: A Poem. By Dr. Goldsmith. Including 
 Epitaphs on the Most Distinguished Wits of this Metro- 
 polis — was first published on the 18th or 19th April, 1774, 
 as a 4to. of twenty-four pages, by G. Kearsly of No. 46, Fleet 
 Street. Under the title was a vignette-head of Goldsmith 
 etched by Basire after Reynolds. To the second edition, 
 which followed almost immediately, and the text of which is 
 here printed, were added four pages of " Explanatory Notes, 
 Observations, etc." 
 
 The poem originated in a contest of epitaphs which took 
 place after a club dinner at the St. James's coffee house. 
 Garrick led off with his well-known impromptu: — 
 
 " Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, 
 Who wrote like an angel, but talk'd like poor Poll," 
 
 and several more were written by the company. Goldsmith 
 reserved his " retaliation," and shortly afterwards set about 
 the annexed poem, left incomplete at his death.]
 
 RETALIATION. 
 
 A TOEM. 
 
 F old, when Scarron 1 his companions 
 invited, 
 Each guest brought his dish, and the 
 feast was united ; 
 If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, 
 Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the 
 
 best dish : 
 Our Dean 2 shall be venison, just fresh from the 
 
 plains ; 
 Our Burke 3 shall be tongue, with a garnish of 
 
 brains ; 
 Our Will 4 shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, 
 And Dick 5 with his pepper shall heighten their 
 savour : 
 
 [l Paul Scarron (1610-60), author of the Roman Comique, 
 to whose picnic dinners " chacun aj>portait son plat. 
 (CEuzires, 1877, i., viii.)] 
 
 [2 Thomas Barnard, Dean of Derry, d. 1806.] 
 
 [ 3 Edmund Burke, 1729-97.] 
 
 [ 4 William Burke (his relation), d. 1798.] 
 
 [5 Richard Burke (Edmund Burke's brother), d. 1794.] 
 E
 
 50 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Our Cumberland's x sweet-bread its place shall 
 
 obtain, 
 And Douglas 2 is pudding, substantial and plain : 
 Our Garrick's 3 a salad ; for in him we see 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
 That Ridge 4 is anchovy, and Reynolds 5 is lamb ; 
 That Hickey's 6 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, re-united 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 'em out ; 
 Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em, 
 That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em- 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was 
 such, 
 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; 
 
 [1 Richard Cumberland the dramatist, 1732-1811.] 
 
 [ 2 Dr. Douglas, afterwards Bishop of Salisbury, d. 1807.] 
 
 [ 3 David Garrick, the actor, 1716-79.] 
 
 [ 4 John Ridge, an Irish Barrister.] 
 
 [ 5 Sir Joshua Reynolds, 1723-92.] 
 
 L 6 Joseph Hickey, d. 1794, the legal adviser of Reynolds.]
 
 RETALIATION. 51 
 
 Who, born for the Universe, narrow'd his mind, 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 
 
 throat 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend ' 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, 
 While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was 
 
 in't; 
 The pupil of impulse, it fore'd 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 
 
 his own. 
 
 Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh 
 at; 
 Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ; 
 
 [1 M.P. for Whitchurch, afterwards Ld. Sydney.]
 
 52 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
 Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ; 1 
 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 pleas'd 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, 
 
 [} "The above Gentleman (Richard Burke) having slightly 
 fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the 
 Doctor (i.e. Goldsmith) has rallied him on those accidents, as 
 a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests on other 
 people." (Note to Second Edition.)]
 
 RETALIATION. 53 
 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 1 
 
 Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax, 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 2 
 Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, 
 Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant 
 
 reclines : 
 When Satire and Censure encircl'd his throne, 
 I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
 Our Dodds 3 shall be pious, our Kenricks 4 shall 
 
 lecture ; 
 Macpherson 5 write bombast, and call it a style, 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com- 
 pile ; 
 New Lauders and Bowers G the Tweed shall cross 
 
 over, 
 No countryman living their tricks to discover ; 
 Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
 And Scotchmen meet Scotchmen, and cheat in the 
 dark. 
 
 [1 Cumberland is said to have fancied that this epitaph 
 was not ironical.] 
 
 [ 2 Douglas exposed two literary impostors, — Archibald 
 Bower, author of a History of the Popes, and William 
 Lauder, who fabricated a charge of plagiarism against 
 Milton.] 
 
 [3 The Rev. William Dodd, executed for forgery in June, 
 
 1777-1 
 
 [4 Dr. Kenrick, who lectured on Shakespeare at the 
 
 Devil Tavern in 1774.] 
 
 [5 James Macpherson (1738-96) of Ossian notoriety. He 
 had recently (1773) published a prose translation of Homer.] 
 [6 Vide note 2 above.]
 
 54 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH 
 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can, 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
 As an actor, confessed without rival to shine : 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
 The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
 Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
 And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 
 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day. 
 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
 He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
 For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them 
 
 back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
 Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, 1 and Woodfalls 2 so grave, 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got and 
 
 you gave ! 
 How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you 
 
 rais'd, 
 While hewasbe-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd ! 
 
 [! Hugh Kelly, the dramatist (1739-77), author of False 
 Delicacy, A Word to the Wise, etc. 
 
 [ 2 William Woodfall, d. 1803, editor of The Morning 
 Chronicle.}
 
 RETALIATION. 55 
 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
 To act as an angel, and mix with the skies : 
 Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, 
 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will. 
 Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and 
 
 with love, 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant 
 creature, 
 And slander itself must allow him good nature : 
 He cherish'd his friend, and he relish 'd a bumper , 
 Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
 Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
 I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser : 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 His very worst foe can't accuse hhn of that : 
 Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah no ! 
 Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn 
 
 ye ! 
 He was, could he help it ? — a special attorney. 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a better or wiser behind : 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; 
 Still born to improve us in every part, 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of 
 hearing :
 
 56 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, 
 
 and stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff . . . l 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 [First printed in the Fifth Edition, 1774.] 
 
 After the Fourth Edition of this Poem was printed, the 
 Publisher received an Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a 
 friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith, inclosed in a letter, of 
 which the following is an abstract : 
 
 ' I have in my possession a sheet of paper, containing 
 near forty lines in the Doctor's own hand-writing : there are 
 many scattered, broken verses, on Sir Jos. Reynolds, Coun- 
 sellor Ridge, Mr. Beauclerk, and Mr. Whitefoord. The 
 Epitaph on the last-mentioned gentleman is the only one 
 that is finished, and therefore I have copied it, that you may 
 add it to the next edition. It is a striking proof of Doctor 
 Goldsmith's good-nature. I saw this sheet of paper in the 
 Doctor's room, five or six days before he died ; and, as I had 
 got all the other Epitaphs, I asked him if I might take it. 
 " In truth you may, my Boy," (replied he) "for it will be 
 of no use to me where I am going." ' 
 
 ERE Whitefoord 2 reclines, and deny it 
 
 who can, 
 Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a 
 grave man ; 
 Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
 Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun ; 
 
 f 1 Prior (Life of Goldsmith, 1837, ii. 490) says half a line 
 more had been written. It was, " By flattery unspoiled "— - 
 and remained unaltered in the MS.] 
 
 [ 2 Caleb Whitefoord, d. 1810, an inveterate punster, and 
 author of the once-popular " Cross Readings," for an ac- 
 count of which see Smith's Life of Nollekois, 1828, i. 336-7.] 
 
 
 PH 
 
 W
 
 RETALIATION. 57 
 
 Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
 A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ; 
 Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will ; 
 Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill ; 
 A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
 A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 
 What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind 
 Should so long be to news-paper essays confin'd ; 
 Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
 Yet content ' if the table he set on a roar ; ' 
 Whose talents to fill any station were fit, 
 Yet happy if Woodfall 1 confess'd him a wit. 
 Ye news-paper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! 
 Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; 
 Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
 Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : 
 To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
 And copious libations bestow on his shrine : 
 Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
 Cross-readings, Ship-news^ and Mistakes of the 
 
 Press. 
 Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit 
 That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said 
 
 wit : 
 This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, 
 ' Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd 
 
 muse.' 3 
 
 [1 H. S. Woodfall, d. 1805, printerof the Public Advertiser, 
 in which the " Cross Readings " appeared.] 
 
 [ 2 An adaptation of Rochester on Lord Buckhurst. It is 
 half suspected that Whitefoord wrote this " Postscript " 
 himself.]
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO 
 
 LORD CLARE. 
 
 m
 
 [ The Haunch of Venison, a Poetical Epistle toLordClare. 
 By the late Dr. Goldsmith. With a Head of the Author, 
 Drawn by Henry Bunbury, Esq; and Etched by [James] 
 Bretlierion — was first published in 1776 by J. Ridley, in St. 
 James's Street and G. Kearsly, in Fleet Street. It is sup- 
 posed to have been written early in 177 1. The present ver- 
 sion is printed from the second edition "taken from the 
 author's last Transcript," and issued in the same year as the 
 first.]
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 
 
 HANKS, my Lord, for your venison, 
 for finer or fatter 
 Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in 
 a platter ; 
 
 The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
 The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy. 
 Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help 
 
 regretting 
 To spoil such a delicate picture by eating ; 
 I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view, 
 To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 
 As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, 
 One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show : 
 But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
 They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
 But hold — let me pause — Don't 1 hear you pro- 
 nounce 
 This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce ? 
 Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
 
 [1 Robert Nugent, of Carlanstown, Westmeath ; created 
 Viscount Clare in 1766 ; in 1776 Earl Nugent.]
 
 62 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 But, my Lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my 
 
 turn, 
 It's a truth— and your Lordship may ask Mr. 
 
 Byrne. 1 
 To go on with my tale— as I gaz'd on the haunch, 
 I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undress'd, 
 To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 
 'Twas a neck and a breast— that might rival 
 
 U[on]r[oeJs :— 2 
 But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 
 With the how, and the who, and the where, and 
 
 the when. 
 There's H[owa?-]d, and C[o/e]y, and H— rth, and 
 
 H[/]ff, 3 
 I think they love venison — I know they love beef; 
 There's my countryman H[?"]gg[?]ns— Oh ! let him 
 
 alone, 
 For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 
 But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, 
 Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
 Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt, 
 It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a 
 
 shirt. 
 While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
 An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, 
 
 enter'd ; 
 An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
 And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. 
 
 [1 Lord Clare's nephew.] 
 
 [ 2 Dorothy Monroe, a celebrated beauty.] 
 
 [ a Paul Hiffernan, M.D., a Grub-street writer.]
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. C 3 
 
 What have we got here ? — Why this is good 
 
 eating ! 
 Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting? ' 
 ' Why, whose should it be ? ' cried I with a flounce, 
 ' I get these things often ; ' — but that was a bounce : 
 ' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the 
 
 nation, 
 Are pleas'd to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' 
 
 ' If that be the case, then,' cried he, very gay, 
 ' I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
 To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
 No words — I insist on't— precisely at three : 
 We'll have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits will 
 
 be there ; ' 
 My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord 
 
 Clare. 
 And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! 
 We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. 
 What say you — a pasty ? it shall, and it must, 
 And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
 Here, porter ! — this venison with me to Mile-end ; 
 No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear 
 
 friend ! ' 
 Thus snatching his hat, hebrush'd off like the wind, 
 And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 
 
 Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
 ' And nobody with me at sea but myself ; ' a 
 
 [! Cf. Boileau, Sat., iii, 11. 25-6, which Goldsmith had in 
 mind.] 
 
 [ 2 A textual quotation from the love letters of Henry 
 Frederick, Duke of Cumberland, to Lady Grosvenor.]
 
 64 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Though I could not help thinking my gentleman 
 
 hasty, 
 Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
 Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, 
 Though clogg'dwith a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
 So next day, indue splendour to make my approach, 
 I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. 
 
 When come to the place where we all were to 
 
 dine, 
 (A chair-lumber' d closet just twelve feet by nine :) 
 My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite 
 
 dumb, 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not 
 
 come ; ' 
 ' For I knew it,' he cried, ' both eternally fail, 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other withThrale; 2 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
 With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
 The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 
 They['re] both of them merry and authors like you ; 
 The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
 Some think he writes Cinua — he owns to Panurge.' 3 
 While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name, 
 They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. 
 
 At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, 
 At the bottom was tripe in a swingeing tureen ; 
 
 [1 Cf. Boileau, lit supra, ll. 31-4.] 
 
 [- Henry Thrale, the Southwark brewer, Johnson's close 
 friend from 1765.] 
 
 [ 3 These were noms de guerre of Dr. W. Scott, Lord 
 Sandwich's chaplain, an active supporter of the Govern- 
 ment.]
 
 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 65 
 
 At the sides there was spinach and pudding made 
 
 hot ; 
 In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. 
 Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
 And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
 So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, 
 While the bacon and liver went merrily round. 
 But what vex'd me most was that d — 'd Scottish 
 
 rogue, 
 With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his 
 
 brogue ; 
 And, 'Madam,' quoth he, 'may this bit be my 
 
 poison, 1 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
 Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curs'd, 
 But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' 
 'The tripe,' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate 
 
 cheek, 
 ' I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week : 
 I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; 
 But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing 
 
 at all.' 
 'O — Oh !' quoth my friend, 'he'll come on in a 
 
 trice, 
 He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
 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 ! ' re-echoed the 
 
 Scot, 
 1 Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for thot.' 
 ' We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out ; 
 4 We'll all keep a corner,' was echoed about. 
 
 t 1 Cf. She Stooj>s to Conquer, Act i, Sc. 2.] 
 F
 
 66 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, 
 With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ; 
 A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
 Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. 1 
 But we quickly found out, for who could mistake 
 
 her? 
 That she came with some terrible news from the 
 
 baker : 
 And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
 Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
 Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 
 And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
 To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour mis- 
 
 plac'd 
 To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 
 You've got an odd something — a kind of dis- 
 cerning — 
 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. 
 
 [1 Cf. 2 Henry IV. Act i, Sc. i.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
 
 FART OF A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND 
 SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, 
 
 A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CAESAR 
 FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 
 
 PRESERVED BY MACROEIUS. 1 
 
 HAT ! no way left to shun th' inglorious 
 
 stage, 
 And save from infamy my sinking age ! 
 Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many 
 a year, 
 'What in the name of dotage drives me here ? 
 A time there was, when glory was my guide, 
 Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; 
 Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappall'd by fear, 
 With honest thrift I held my honour dear : 
 But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
 And all my hoard of honour is no more. 
 For ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
 
 f 1 First printed at pp. 176-7 of Goldsmith's Enquiry inta 
 the Present State of 'Polite Learning, 1759(011. xii. — ' Of the 
 Stage'). The original lines are to be found in the Satur- 
 nalia of Macrobius, lib. ii. cap. vii. ed. Zennii, pp. 569-70.]
 
 7 o POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Caesar persuades, submission must be mine; 
 Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys, 
 Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please. 
 Here then at once, I welcome every shame, 
 And cancel at threescore a life of fame ; 
 No more my titles shall my children tell, 
 The old buffoon will fit my name as well ; 
 This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
 For life is ended when our honour ends. 
 
 ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK 
 BLIND WITH LIGHTNING. 1 
 
 {Imitated from the Spanish.) 
 
 URE 'twas by Providence design'd, 
 Rather in pity, than in hate, 
 
 That he should be, like Cupid, blind, 
 To save him from Narcissus' fate. 
 
 [' First printed in The Bee, 6 October, 1759.] 
 
 wtil&t
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 7 i 
 
 THE GIFT. 
 
 TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN. 1 
 
 AY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 
 Dear mercenary beauty, 
 What annual offering shall I make, 
 Expressive of my duty ? 
 
 My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 
 
 Should I at once deliver, 
 Say, would the angry fair one prize 
 
 The gift, who slights the giver ? 
 
 A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 
 
 My rivals give — and let 'em : 
 If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 
 
 I'll give them — when I get 'em 
 
 I'll give— but not the full-blown rose, 
 Or rose-bud more in fashion ; 
 
 Such short-liv'd offerings but disclose 
 A transitory passion. 
 
 [1 First printed in The Bee, 13 October, 1759. It is an 
 adaptation of some lines headed Etrene a fris in Part iii. of 
 the Me'/iagiana.']
 
 7a POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 
 Not less sincere than civil : 
 
 I'll give thee — Ah ! too charming maid, 
 I'll give thee — To the Devil.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PJECES. 73 
 
 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 1 
 
 ' OGICIANS have but ill defin'd 
 As rational the human kind ; 
 Reason, they say, belongs to man, 
 But let them prove it if they can. 
 
 Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius, 
 
 By ratiocinations specious, 
 
 Have strove to prove with great precision, 
 
 With definition and division, 
 
 Homo est ratione praeditum, — 
 
 But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ; 
 
 And must in spite of them maintain, 
 
 That man and all his ways are vain ; 
 
 And that this boasted lord of nature 
 
 Is both a weak and erring creature ; 
 
 That instinct is a surer guide 
 
 Than reason-boasting mortal's pride ; 
 
 And that brute beasts are far before 'em 
 
 Dens est anima brutorum. 
 
 Who ever knew an honest brute 
 
 t 1 First printed in The Busy Body, 18 October, 1739, with 
 the heading :— " The following poem written by Dr. Swift, 
 is communicated to the Public by the Busy Body, to whom 
 it was presented by a Nobleman of distinguished Learning 
 and Taste." But tradition, and the early editors, ascribe 
 the lines to Goldsmith.]
 
 74 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 At law his neighbour prosecute, 
 
 Bring action for assault and battery, 
 
 Or friends beguile with lies and flattery ? 
 
 O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd, 
 
 No politics disturb their mind ; 
 
 They eat their meals, and take their sport, 
 
 Nor know who's in or out at court ; 
 
 They never to the levee go 
 
 To treat as dearest friend, a foe ; 
 
 They never importune his Grace, 
 
 Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 
 
 Nor undertake a dirty job, 
 
 Nor draw the quill to write for B — b. 1 
 
 Fraught with invective they ne'er go, 
 
 To folks at Paternoster Row ; 
 
 No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 
 
 No pickpockets, or poetasters, 
 
 Are known to honest quadrupeds ; 
 
 No single brute his fellow leads. 
 
 Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 
 
 Nor cut each others' throats, for pay. 
 
 Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape 
 
 Comes nearest us in human shape ; 
 
 Like man he imitates each fashion, 
 
 And malice is his ruling passion ; 
 
 But both in malice and grimaces 
 
 A courtier any ape surpasses. 
 
 Behold him humbly cringing wait 
 
 Upon a minister of state ; 
 
 View him soon after to inferiors, 
 
 Aping the conduct of superiors ; 
 
 [1 Sir Robert Walpole.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 75 
 
 He promises with equal air, 
 And to perform takes equal care. 
 He in his turn finds imitators ; 
 At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, 
 Their master's manners still contract, 
 And footmen, lords and dukes can act. 
 Thus at the court both great and small 
 Behave alike, for all ape all. 
 
 A SONNET. 1 
 
 EEPING, 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. 
 
 f 1 First printed in The Bee, 20 October, 1750. It is said 
 to be an imitation of Denis Sanguin de St.-Pavin, d. 1670.]
 
 7 5 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF 
 GENERAL WOLFE. 1 
 
 j MIDST the clamour of exulting joys, 
 Which triumph forces from the patriot 
 heart, 
 Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing 
 voice, 
 And quells the raptures which from pleasures 
 start. 
 
 O Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 
 Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 
 
 Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
 Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 
 
 Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 
 
 And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : 
 
 Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though 
 dead — ■ 
 Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise ! 
 
 [I First printed in The Busy Body, 22 October, 1759, a 
 week after the news of Wolfe's death (on 13 September 
 previous) had reached England.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 77 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER 
 SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 1 
 
 OOD people all, with one accord, 
 Lament for Madam Blaize, 
 Who never wanted a good word — 
 From those who spoke her praise. 
 
 The needy seldom pass'd her door, 
 
 And always found her kind ; 
 She freely lent to all the poor, — 
 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighbourhood to please, 
 With manners wond'rous winning, 
 
 And never followed wicked ways, — 
 Unless when she zuas sinning. 
 
 At church, in silks and satins new, 
 
 With hoop of monstrous size, " 
 She never slumber'd in her pew, — 
 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver, 
 
 By twenty beaux and more ; 
 The king himself has follow'd her,— 
 
 When she has walk'd before. 
 
 [1 First printed in The Bee, 27 October, 1759. It is 
 modelled on the old song of M. de la Palice, a version of 
 which is to be found in Part iii. of the Mcnagiana.]
 
 78 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 But now her wealth and finery fled, 
 Her hangers-on cut short all ; 
 
 The doctors found, when she was dead, — 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
 Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 
 For Kent-street well may say, 
 
 That had she lived a twelve-month more,— 
 She had not died to-day.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 79 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S 
 BEDCHAMBER. 1 
 
 HERE the Red Lion flaring o'er the 
 
 way, 
 Invites each passing stranger that can 
 pay; 
 
 Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black cham- 
 pagne, 2 
 Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ; 
 There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 
 The Muse found Scroggen stretch 'd beneath a 
 
 ru g; 
 
 A window, patch 'd with paper, lent a ray, 
 That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 
 The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; 
 The humid wall with paltry pictures spread : 
 The royal game of goose was there in view, 
 And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; 3 
 The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, 
 And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black 
 face ; 4 
 
 [ l First printed in a Chinese Letter in The Public Ledger, 
 2 May, 1760, afterwards Letter xxix. of The Citizen of the 
 World, 1762, i. 121.] 
 
 [ 2 i.e., "Entire butt beer" or porter.] 
 
 [ 3 See notes, p. 40.] 
 
 [« William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, 1721-65,— ■ 
 probably a silhouette.]
 
 So POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 
 The rusty grate unconscious of a fire ; 
 With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd, 
 And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board ; 
 A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 
 A cap by night — a stocking all the day ! 1 
 
 [1 Cf. The Deserted Village, p. 39 :— 
 
 " A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day."]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Si 
 
 ON SEEING MRS. * * PERFORM IN 
 THE CHARACTER OF * * * *. 1 
 
 you, bright fair, the Nine address 
 
 their lays, 
 And tune my feeble voice to sing thy 
 
 praise. 
 
 The heartfelt power of every charm divine, 
 Who can withstand their all commanding shine? 
 See how she moves along with every grace, 
 While soul-brought tears steal down each shining 
 
 face. 
 She speaks ! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss, 
 Ye gods ! what transport e'er compared to this ? 
 As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love 
 With fond complaint address'd the listening Jove ; 
 'Twas joy and endless blisses all around, 
 And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound. 
 Then first, at last even Jove was taken in, 
 And felt her charms, without disguise, within. 
 
 [1 From Letter lxxxii. of The Citizen of the World, 1762, 
 ii. 87, first printed in The Public Ledger, 21 October, 1760. 
 The verses are intended as a specimen of the newspaper 
 muse.]
 
 82 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 OF THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT 
 HON. * * *.» 
 
 E muses, pour the pitying tear 
 For Pollio snatch'd away ; 
 O ! had he liv'd another year ! 
 He had not died to-day. 
 
 O ! were he born to bless mankind 
 
 In virtuous times of yore, 
 Heroes themselves had fallen behind 
 
 Whene'er he went before. 
 
 How sad the groves and plains appear, 
 
 And sympathetic sheep ; 
 Even pitying hills would drop a tear 
 
 If hills could learn to weep. 
 
 His bounty in exalted strain 
 Each bard might well display : 
 
 Since none implor'd relief in vain 
 That went relieved away. 
 
 [1 From Letter ciii. of The Citizen of the World, 1762, ii. 
 164, first printed in The. Public Ledger. 4 March, 1761. 
 The verses are given as "a specimen of a poem on the 
 decease of a great man." Cf. the Elegy on Mrs. Mary 
 Blaizc, p. 77.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And hark ! I hear the tuneful throng 
 
 His obsequies forbid, 
 He still shall live, shall live as long 
 
 As ever dead man did. 
 
 Sj
 
 84 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 AN EPIGRAM. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE GENTLEMEN REFLECTED ON 
 IN THE ROSCIAD, A POEM, BY THE AUTHOR. 1 
 
 Worried with debts, and past all hopes of bail, 
 His pen he prostitutes t'avoid a gaol. 
 
 Roscom. 
 
 ET not the hungry Bavius'angry stroke 
 Awake resentment, or your rage pro- 
 voke — 
 But pitying his distress, let virtue 2 
 shine, 
 And giving each your bounty, 3 let him dine. 
 For thus retain'd, as learned counsel can, 
 Each case, however bad, he'll new japan ; 
 And by a quick transition, plainly show 
 'Twas no defect of yours, but pocket low, 
 That caus'd his putrid kennel to o'erflow. 
 
 [ l From Letter ex. of The Citizen of the World, 1762, ii. 
 193, first printed in The Public Ledger, 14th April, 1761. 
 The epigram, however, had been printed in the Ledger for 
 4th April, and so was only revived in the letter of ten days 
 iater. It is one of Goldsmith's doubtful pieces, but his ani- 
 mosity to Churchill is unquestioned.] 
 
 2 Charity (Author's note). 
 
 3 Settled at one shilling, the price of the poem (Author's 
 note).
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 TO G. C. AND R. L. 1 
 
 WAS you, or I, or he, or all together, 
 'Twas one, both, three of them, they 
 
 know not whether ; 
 This, I believe, between us great or 
 small, 
 You, I, he, wrote it not— 'twas Churchill's all. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH 
 AMERICAN ODE. 2 
 
 N all my Enna's beauties blest, 
 Amidst profusion still I pine ; 
 For though she gives me up her breast, 
 Its panting tenant is not mine. 
 
 P From the same letter as the preceding epigram ; but 
 not a reprint. George Colman (G. C), and Robert Lloyd 
 (R. L.), were supposed to have assisted Churchill in the 
 Rosciad, the '"it" of the epigram.] 
 
 P From Letter cxiii. of The Citizen of the World, 1762, 
 ii. 209, first printed in The Public Ledger, 13th May, 
 1761-]
 
 86 
 
 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 ECLUDEU from domestic strife, 
 Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 
 A fellowship at twenty-five 
 .Made him the happiest man alive ; 
 He drank his glass and cracked his joke, 
 And Freshmen wondered as he spoke. 
 
 Such pleasures unalloy'd with care, 
 Could any accident impair ? 
 Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
 Our swain, arriv'd at thirty-six ? 
 O had the archer ne'er come down 
 To ravage in a country town ! 
 Or Flavia been content to stop 
 At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop. 
 O had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 
 Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze. 
 
 O ! But let exclamation cease, 
 
 Her presence banish'd all his peace. 
 So with decorum all things carried ; 
 Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was — married. 
 
 [ l First printed in Essays, by Mr. Goldsmith, 17G5, p 
 The version here followed is that of the second edition of 
 1766, which was revised.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 87 
 
 Need we expose to vulgar sight 
 The raptures of the bridal night ? 
 Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, 
 Or draw the curtains clos'd around ? 
 Let it suffice, that each had charms ; 
 He clasp'd a goddess in his arms ; 
 And, though she felt his usage rough, 
 Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 
 
 The honey-moon like lightning flew, 
 The second brought its transports too. 
 A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 
 The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss : 
 But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, 
 Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 
 Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
 Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
 But still the worst remain'd behind, 
 That very face had robb'd her mind. 
 
 Skill'd in no other arts was she, 
 But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
 And, just as humour rose or fell, 
 By turns a slattern or a belle : 
 'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, 
 Half naked at a ball or race ; 
 But when at home, at board or bed, 
 Five greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head. 
 Could so much beauty condescend 
 To be a dull domestic friend ? 
 Could any curtain-lectures bring 
 To decency so fine a thing ? 
 In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ;
 
 88 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. 
 
 Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 
 
 Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy ; 
 
 The 'squire and captain took their stations, 
 
 And twenty other near relations ; 
 
 Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 
 
 A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 
 
 While all their hours were pass'd between 
 
 Insulting repartee or spleen. 
 
 Thus as her faults each day were known, 
 He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
 He fancies every vice she shows, 
 Or thins her lip, or points her nose : 
 Whenever rage or envy rise, 
 How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! 
 He knows not how, but so it is, 
 Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 
 And, though her fops are wond'rous civil, 
 He thinks her ugly as the devil. 
 
 Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, 
 As each a different way pursues, 
 While sullen or loquacious strife, 
 Promis'd to hold them on for life, 
 That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
 Withers the beauty's transient flower : 
 Lo ! the small-pox, whose horrid glare 
 Levell'd its terrors at the fair : 
 And, rifling ev'ry youthful grace, 
 Left but the remnant of a face. 
 
 The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
 Reflected now a perfect fright :
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 89 
 
 Each former art she vainly tries 
 To bring back lustre to her eyes. 
 In vain she tries her paste and creams, 
 To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; 
 Her country beaux and city cousins, 
 Lovers no more, flew off by dozens : 
 The 'squire himself was seen to yield, 
 And even the captain quit the field. 
 
 Poor Madam, now condemn'd to hack 
 The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
 Perceiving others fairly flown, 
 Attempted pleasing him alone. 
 Jack soon was dazzl'd to behold 
 Her present face surpass the old ; 
 With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, 
 Humility displaces pride ; 
 For tawdry finery is seen 
 A person ever neatly clean : 
 No more presuming on her sway, 
 She learns good-nature every day ; 
 Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 
 Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
 
 go POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 A NEW SIMILE. 
 
 IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 1 
 
 ONG had I sought in vain to find 
 A likeness for the scribbling kind ; 
 The modern scribbling kind, who write 
 In wit, and sense, and nature's spite : 
 Till reading, I forgot what day on, 
 A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
 I think I met with something there, 
 To suit my purpose to a hair ; 
 L!ut let us not proceed too furious, 
 First please to turn to god Mercurius ; 
 You'll find him pictur'd at full length 
 In book the second, page the tenth : 
 The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
 And now proceed we to our simile. 
 
 Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 
 Wings upon either side — mark that. 
 Well ! what is it from thence we gather ? 
 Why these denote a brain of feather. 
 A brain of feather ! very right, 
 With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 
 Such as to modern bard's decreed : 
 A just comparison, — proceed. 
 
 [' First printed in Essays, by Mr. Goldsmith, 1765^. 234. 
 The version here followed is that of the second edition of 
 1766, which was slightly revised.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 91 
 
 In the next place, his feet peruse, 
 Wings grow again from both his shoes ; 
 Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, 
 And waft his godship through the air ; 
 And here my simile unites, 
 For in a modern poet's nights, 
 I'm sure it may be justly said, 
 His feet are useful as his head. 
 
 Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, 
 Filled with a snake-encircl'd wand ; 
 By classic authors term'd caduceus, 
 And highly fam'd for several uses. 
 To wit — most wond'rously endu'd, 
 No poppy water l half so good ; 
 For let folks only get a touch, 
 Its soporific virtue's such, 
 Though ne'er so much awake before, 
 That quickly they begin to snore. 
 Add too, what certain writers tell, 
 With this he drives men's souls to hell. 
 
 Now to apply, begin we then ; 
 His wand's a modern author's pen ; 
 The serpents round about it twin'd 
 Denote him of the reptile kind ; 
 Denote the rage with which he writes, 
 His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ; 
 An equal semblance still to keep, 
 Alike too both conduce to sleep. 
 
 [I A favourite sleeping-draught. "Juno shall give her 
 peacock popf>y--water." (Congrcve's Love for Love, 1695, 
 Act IV., sc. 3.)]
 
 92 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 This diffrence only, as the god 
 Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 
 With his goosequill the scribbling elf, 
 Instead of others, damns himself. 
 
 And here my simile almost tript, 
 Yet grant a word by way of postscript. 
 Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing : 
 Well ! what of that ? out with it — stealing ; 
 In which all modern bards agree, 
 Being each as great a thief as he : 
 But ev'n this deity's existence 
 Shall lend my simile assistance. 
 Our modern bards ! why what a pox 
 Are they but senseless stones and blocks ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 93 
 
 EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 
 
 URN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 
 And guide my lonely way, 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale, 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 ' For here, forlorn and lost I tread, 
 
 With fainting steps and slow ; 
 Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
 
 Seem lengthening as I go.' 
 
 ' Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries, 
 ' To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 
 For yonder faithless phantom 2 flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 ' Here to the houseless child of want 
 My door is open still ; 
 
 t 1 Written in or before 1765, when it was printed privately 
 "for the amusement of the Countess of Northumberland," 
 under the title of Edwin and Angelina. A Ballad. By 
 Mr. Goldsmith. A copy in this rare form was sold at 
 Heber's sale for 3s. It was first published in TIu Vicar of 
 Wakefield, 1766, i. 70 (ch. viii.) ; and again in Poems for 
 Young Ladies, 1767, p. 91. The version here followed is 
 that in the fifth edition of the Vicar, 1773 [4], pp. 78-85.] 
 
 [■-' i.e., Will o' the Wisp.]
 
 94 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 ' Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 
 Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 My rushy couch, and frugal fare, 
 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 No flocks that range the valley free 
 
 To slaughter I condemn : 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them. 
 
 ' But from the mountain's grassy side 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 ' Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong : 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long.' l 
 
 Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay ; 
 A refuge to the neighbouring poor 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 [• A quotation from Young's Complaint, Night iv., 1743, 
 P-9-J
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 9s 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 
 Requir'd a master's care ; 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 
 Receiv'd the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 
 
 To take their evening rest, 
 The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest : 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 
 And gaily press'd, and smil'd ; 
 And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
 
 The lingering hours beguil'd. 
 
 Around in sympathetic mirth 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
 The cricket chirrups in the hearth ; 
 
 The crackling faggot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart 
 
 To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
 With answering care oppress'd ; 
 
 ' And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, 
 ' The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 ' From better habitations spurn'd, 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ; 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
 
 Or unregarded love ?
 
 9 6 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ' Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
 
 Are trifling and decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things, 
 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 ' And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 
 But leaves the wretch to weep ? 
 
 ' And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modern fair one's jest : 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 ' For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 
 And spurn the sex,' he said : 
 But, while he spoke, a rising blush 
 
 His love-lorn guest betray'd. 
 
 Surpris'd, he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confess'd 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 ' And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 A wretch forlorn,' she cried ; 
 
 ' Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
 Where heaven and you reside.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 97 
 
 ' But let a maid thy pity share, 
 
 "Whom love has taught to stray ; 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 ' My father liv'd beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he ; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 ' To win me from his tender arms 
 
 Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
 Who prais'd me for imputed charms, 
 
 And felt or feign'd a flame. 
 
 ' Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 
 With richest proffers strove : 
 Amongst the rest young Edwin bovv'd, 
 
 But never talk'd of love. 
 
 ' In humble, simplest habit clad, 
 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 [' And when beside me in the dale 
 
 He caroll'd lays of love ; 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
 
 And music to the grove. 1 ] 
 
 [1 This stanza, which is not in the contemporary versions, 
 was given to Bishop Percy, for his edition of the Works 
 (1801), by Richard Archdal, Esq., who had received it from 
 the author.] 
 
 H
 
 9 S POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ' The blossom opening to the day, 
 The dews of heaven refin'd, 
 
 Could nought of purity display, 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 ' The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 With charms inconstant shine ; 
 
 Their charms were his, but woe to me ! 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 * For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain : 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 I triumph'd in his pain. 
 
 ' Till quite dejected with my scorn. 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 * But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
 
 And well my life shall pay ; 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 'And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 
 I'll lay me down and die ; 
 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
 
 And so for him will I.' 
 
 * Forbid it, Heaven ! ' the Hermit cried, 
 
 And clasp'd her to his breast : 
 The wondering fair one turned to chide, 
 'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 ' Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Restor'd to love and thee. 
 
 ' Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 And ev'ry care resign ; 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 
 My life — my all that's mine ? 
 
 ' No, never from this hour to part, 
 We'll live and love so true ; 
 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too.' 
 
 99
 
 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A 
 MAD DOG. 1 
 
 OOD people all, of every sort, 
 Give ear unto my song ; 
 
 And if you find it wond'rous short, 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man, 
 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 That still a godly race he ran, 
 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 2 
 
 A kind and gentle heart he had, 
 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 The naked every day he clad, 
 
 When he put on his clothes. 2 
 
 And in that town a dog was found, 
 
 As many dogs there be, 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends ; 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 The dog, to gain some private ends, 
 
 Went mad and bit the man. 
 
 [ l First printed in The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766, i. 175.] 
 [ 2 Cf. An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaizc, p. 77 ante.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 101 
 
 Around from all the neighbouring streets 
 The wond'ring neighbours ran, 
 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the dog was mad, 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light, 
 That show'd the rogues they lied : 
 
 The man recover'd of the bite, 
 The dog it was that died. 1 
 
 [' This termination is based upon an epigram in the Greek 
 Anthology, or perhaps upon an adaptation by Voltaire ; 
 " L'autre jour, au fond d'un vallon 
 Un serpent mordit Jean Freron. 
 Devinez ce qu'il arriva? 
 Ce fut le serpent qui creva."]
 
 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SONG, 
 
 FROM 'THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.' 1 
 
 HEN 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. 
 
 t 1 Sting by Olivia in chap. v. of The Vicar of Wakefield, 
 1766, ii. 7S, where it was first printed.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 103 
 
 EPILOGUE TO 'THE SISTER.' 
 
 i.HAT ! 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 ; 
 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 pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of 
 
 thinking. 
 Well ! since she thus has shown 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 maskers, 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-coloured suits, that ride 'em. 
 There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
 To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. 
 
 [l TheSister, 1769, in which this epilogue was first printed, 
 was a comedy by Mrs. Charlotte Lennox (1720-1804), pro- 
 duced at Covent Garden, 18 Februaiy, 1769.]
 
 io 4 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 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 tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. 
 
 Thus 'tis with all — their chief and constant care 
 
 Is to seem everything but what they are. 
 
 Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
 
 Who seems to have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; 
 
 Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round 
 
 parade, 
 Looking, as who should say, Dam'me ! who's 
 
 afraid ? {mimicking. ) 
 
 Strip but his 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 a 
 
 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.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 105 
 
 PROLOGUE TO 'ZOBEIDE.' 1 
 
 SPOKEN BY QUICK IN THE CHARACTER OF A 
 SAILOR. 
 
 these bold times, 2 when Learning's 
 
 sons explore 
 The distant climate 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 ; 
 When every bosom swells with wond'rous scenes, 
 Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens : 
 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'as ordered me before, 
 To make an observation on the shore. 
 Where are we driven ? our reck'ning sure is lost ! 
 This seems a barren and a dangerous coast. 
 
 t 1 Zobeide was a play by Joseph Cradock of Gumley, in 
 Leicestershire, a friend of Goldsmith's latter days. It was 
 translated from Les Scythes of Voltaire, and produced at 
 Covent Garden, 11 December, 1771. Goldsmith's prologue 
 is here printed from Cradock's Memoirs, 1828, iii. 8.] 
 
 L 2 A reference to Cook's just concluded voyage to Otaheite 
 to observe the transit of Venus.]
 
 io6 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 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 turtles in 'em — 
 
 (Balconies.) 
 
 Here ill-condition 'd oranges abound 
 
 (Stage.) 
 And apples (takes up one and tastes it), bitter apples 
 
 strew the ground. 
 The place is uninhabited, I fear ! 
 I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 
 O there the natives are — a dreadful race ! 
 The men have tails, the women paint the face ! 
 No doubt they're all barbarians. — Yes, 'tis so ; 
 I'll try to make palaver l with them though ; 
 
 (making signs.) 
 'Tis best, however, keeping at a distance. 
 Good Savages, our Captain craves assistance ; 
 Our ship's well stor'd ; — in yonder creek we've 
 
 laid her ; 
 His honour is no mercenary trader ; 2 
 This is his first adventure ; lend him aid, 
 Or you may chance to spoil 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. 
 
 [1 i.e. to hold a parley.] 
 
 [ 2 Cradock gave his profits to his " Zobeide,"— Mrs. Yates, 
 the actress.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 107 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUST ALIS : 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL 
 
 HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER 
 
 OF WALES. 1 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following may more properly be termed a 
 compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the 
 composer in little more than two days : and may 
 therefore rather be considered as an industrious 
 effort of gratitude than of genius. 
 
 In justice to the composer it may likewise be 
 right to inform the public, that the music was 
 adapted in a period of time equally short. 
 
 SPEAKERS. 
 
 Mr. Lee and Airs. Bellamy. 
 
 SINGERS. 
 
 Mr. C/iampnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. 
 The masie prepared and adapted by Signor Ven/o. 
 
 t 1 Augusta, mother of George the Third, who died at 
 Carlton House, 8 February, 1772. This piece was spoken 
 and sung in Mrs. Teresa Cornelys' Great Room in Soho 
 Square on Thursday, the 20th following, being sold at the 
 doors as a 4to. pamphlet. The publisher was W. Woodfall. 
 The author's name was not given ; but the advertisement 
 here reproduced preceded the verses, with the list of pet- 
 formers.]
 
 io8 FOEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 
 
 OVERTURE — A SOLEMN DIRGE. AIR— TRIO. 
 
 RISE, ye sons of worth, arise, 
 And waken every note of woe ; 
 When truth and virtue reach the skies, 
 'Tis ours to weep the want below ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 When truth and virtue, &c. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 The praise attending pomp and power, 
 The incense given to kings, 
 Are but the trappings of an hour, 
 Mere transitory things. 
 The base bestow them : but the good agree 
 To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. 
 But when to pomp and power are joined 
 An equal dignity of mind ; 
 When titles are the smallest claim : 
 When wealth, and rank, and noble blood, 
 But aid the power of doing good, 
 Then all their trophies last, — and flattery turns 
 to fame. 
 Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, 
 Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, 
 How hast thou left mankind for Heaven !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 109 
 
 Even now reproach and faction mourn, 
 
 And, wondering how their rage was born, 
 
 Request to be forgiven ! 
 
 Alas ! they never had thy hate : 
 
 Unmov'd in conscious rectitude, 
 
 Thy towering mind self-centred stood, 
 
 Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. 
 
 In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight, 
 
 A thousand gifts would fortune send ; 
 
 In vain, to drive thee from the right, 
 
 A thousand sorrows urg'd thy end : 
 
 Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience st<M><l, 
 
 And purchas'd strength from its increasing load. 
 
 Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
 
 Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
 
 Virtue, on herself relying, 
 
 Eveiy passion hushed to rest, 
 
 Loses every pain of dying 
 
 In the hopes of being blest. 
 
 Every added pang she suffers 
 
 Some increasing good bestows, 
 
 And every shock that malice offers 
 
 Only rocks her to repose. 
 
 SONG. BY A MAN. — AFFETTUOSO. 
 
 Virtue, on herself relying, 
 Every passion hushed to rest, 
 Loses every pain of dying 
 In the hopes of being blest. 
 Every added pang she suffers 
 Some increasing good bestows, 
 And every shock that malice offers 
 Only rocks her to repose.
 
 no POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 WOMAN SrEAKER. 
 Yet ah ! what terrors frowned upon her fate, 
 Death with its formidable band, 
 Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, 
 Determin'd took their stand. 
 Nor did the cruel ravagers design 
 To finish all their efforts at a blow : 
 But, mischievously slow, 
 They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine. 
 With unavailing grief, 
 Despairing of relief, 
 Her weeping children round, 
 Beheld each hour 
 Death's growing power, 
 And trembled as he frown'd. 
 
 As helpless friends who view from shore 
 
 The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar, 
 
 While winds and waves their wishes cross : 
 
 They stood, while hope and comfort fail, 
 
 Not to assist, but to bewail 
 
 The inevitable loss. 
 
 Relentless tyrant, at thy call 
 
 How do the good, the virtuous fall ! 
 
 Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, 
 
 But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. 
 
 SONG. BY A MAN — BASSO, STACCATO, SPIRITOSO. 
 
 When vice my dart and scythe supply 
 
 How great a king of terrors I ! 
 
 If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, 
 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 
 
 Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. in 
 
 Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings ! 
 If virtue fail her counsel sage, 
 Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, 
 Teach us to estimate what all must suffer ; 
 Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, 
 As a safe inn, where weary travellers, 
 When they have journey'd through a world of cares, 
 May put off life and be at rest for ever. 
 Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy 
 
 sables, 
 May oft distract us with their sad solemnity. 
 The preparation is the executioner. 
 Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, 
 And is a terror only at a distance : 
 For as the line of life conducts me on 
 To death's great court, the prospect seems more 
 
 fair, 
 'Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open 
 To take us in when we have drained the cup 
 Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. 
 In that secure, serene retreat, 
 Where all the humble, all the great, 
 Promiscuously recline : 
 Where wildly huddled to the eye, 
 The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie, 
 May every bliss be thine. 
 And ah ! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, 
 Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, 
 May cherubs welcome their expected guest, 
 May saints with songs receive thee to their rest,
 
 ii2 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 May peace that claim'd while here thy wannest 
 
 love, 
 May blissful endless peace be thine above ! 
 
 SONG. BY A WOMAN — AMOROSO. 
 Lovely lasting Peace below, 
 Comforter of every woe, 
 Heavenly born and bred on high, 
 To crown the favourites of the sky ; 
 Lovely lasting Peace, appear, 
 This world itself, if thou art here, 
 Is once again with Eden blest, 
 And man contains it in his breast. 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 
 Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, 
 
 Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : 
 
 Celestial-like her bounty fell, 
 
 Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell, 
 
 Want pass'd for merit at her door, 
 
 Unseen the modest were supplied, 
 
 Her constant pity fed the poor, 
 
 Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. 
 
 And oh ! for this ! while sculpture decks thy shrine, 
 
 And art exhausts profusion round, 
 
 The tribute of a tear be mine, 
 
 A simple song, a sigh profound. 
 
 There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray, 1 
 
 To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay : 
 
 And calm Religion shall repair 
 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there. 
 
 [1 Thesef our lines, with some alteration, are taken from 
 Collins's Ode written in the year 1746.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree 
 To blend their virtues while they think of thee. 
 
 AIR. CHORUS — POMPOSO. 
 Let us, let all the world agree, 
 To profit by resembling thee. 
 
 "3
 
 H4 
 
 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 OVERTURE. — rASTORALE. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 AST by that shore where Thames' 
 translucent stream 
 Reflects new glories on his breast, 
 Where, splendid as the youthful poet's 
 dream, 
 He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest : 
 Where sculptur'd elegance and native grace 
 Unite to stamp the beauties of the place : 
 While, sweetly blending, still are seen 
 The wavy lawn, the sloping green : 
 While novelty, with cautious cunning, 
 Through every maze of fancy running, 
 From China borrows aid to deck the scene : 
 There sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, 
 Forlorn, a rural band complain'd, 
 All whom Augusta's bounty fed, 
 All whom her clemency sustain'd ; 
 The good old sire, unconscious of decay, 
 The modest matron, clad in homespun gray, 
 The military boy, the orphan'd maid, 
 The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd ; 
 These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, 
 And as they view
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 115 
 
 The towers of Kew, 1 
 
 Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep. 
 
 CHORUS.— AFFETTUOSO, LARGO. 
 Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, 
 Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes, 
 Let all your echoes now deplore, 
 That she who form'd your beauties is no more. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 First of the train the patient rustic came, 
 Whose callous hand had form'd the scene, 
 Bending at once with sorrow and with age, 
 With many a tear, and many a sigh between, 
 'And where,' he cried, 'shall now my babes 
 
 have bread, 
 Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? 
 No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, 
 Nor can my strength perform what they require : 
 Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, 
 A sleek and idle race is all their care : 
 My noble mistress thought not so ! 
 Her bounty, like the morning dew, 
 Unseen, though constant, used to flow, 
 And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew.' 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 In decent dress, and coarsely clean, 
 The pious matron next was seen, 
 
 P "The embellishment of Kew Palace and gardens, 
 under the direction of [Sir William] Chambers and others, 
 was the favourite object of her [Royal Highr.ess's] widow- 
 hood." (Bolton Corney.)]
 
 n6 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne, 
 
 By use and daily meditation worn ; 
 
 That decent dress, this holy guide, 
 
 Augusta's care had well supplied. 
 
 'And ah !' she cries, all woe-begone, 
 
 ' What now remains for me ? 
 
 Oh ! where shall weeping want repair, 
 
 To ask for charity ? 
 
 Too late in life for me to ask, 
 
 And shame prevents the deed, 
 
 And tardy, tardy are the times 
 
 To succour, should I need. 
 
 But all my wants, before I spoke, 
 
 Were to my Mistress known ; 
 
 She still reliev'd, nor sought my praise, 
 
 Contented with her own. 
 
 But every day her name I'll bless, 
 
 My morning prayer, my evening song, 
 
 I'll praise her while my life shall last, 
 
 A life that cannot last me long." 
 
 SONG. BY A WOMAN. 
 Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless, 
 My morning and my evening song, 
 And when in death my vows shall cease, 
 My children shall the note prolong. 
 
 MAN SPEAKER. 
 The hardy veteran after struck the sight, 
 Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part, 
 Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight, 
 In nought entire— except his heart : 
 Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 117 
 
 At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast. 
 
 ' Wild is the whirlwind rolling 
 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain, 
 
 And wild the tempest howling 
 
 Along the billowed main : l 
 
 But every danger felt before, 
 
 The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar, 
 
 Less dreadful struck me with dismay, 
 
 Than what I feel this fatal day. 
 
 Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, 
 
 Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave ; 3 
 
 I'll seek that less inhospitable coast, 
 
 And lay my body where my limbs were lost.' 
 
 SONG. BY A MAN. — BASSO, SPIRITOSO. 
 Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, 
 Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field, 
 To do thy memory right : 
 For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, 
 Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 
 And wish the avenging fight. 3 
 
 WOMAN SPEAKER. 
 In innocence and youth complaining, 
 Next appear'd a lovely maid, 
 Affliction o'er each feature reigning, 
 Kindly came in beauty's aid ; 
 Every grace that grief dispenses, 
 
 [! Cf. The Captivity, p. 139.] 
 [ 2 Cf. The Traveller, p. 21.] 
 
 I 3 Varied from Collins's Ode on the Death 0/ Colonel 
 Charles Ross at Eontenoy.]
 
 nS POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Every glance that warms the soul, 
 
 In sweet succession charm'd the senses, 
 
 While pity harmoniz'd the whole. 
 
 ' The garland of beauty' ('tis thus she would say,) 
 
 ' No more shall my crook or my temples adorn, 
 
 I'll not wear a garland, Augusta's away, 
 
 I'll not wear a garland until she return : 
 
 But alas ! that return I never shall see : 
 
 The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, 
 
 There promis'd a lover to come, but, Oh me ! 
 
 'Twas death, — 'twas the death of my mistress that 
 
 came. 
 But ever, for ever, her image shall last, 
 I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom ; 
 On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be 
 
 cast, 
 And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her 
 
 tomb.' 
 
 SONG. BY A WOMAN. — PASTORALE. 
 With garlands of beauty the queen of the May 
 No more will her crook or her temples adorn ; 
 For who'd wear a garland when she is away, 
 When she is remov'd, and shall never return. 
 
 On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac'd, 
 We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom, 1 
 And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast. 
 And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her 
 tomb. 
 
 [' Cf. Collins's Dirge in Cymbdine.}
 
 M ISC ELL A NEO US PIECES. 
 
 119 
 
 CHORUS. — ALTRO MODO. 
 
 On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac'd, 
 We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom ; 
 And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
 And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.
 
 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN 'SHE 
 STOCKS TO CONQUER.' 1 
 
 H, 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, not a smile shall my passion discover : 
 
 She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
 Makes but a penitent, loses a lover. 
 
 [1 This was first printed by Boswell in the London Maga- 
 zine for June, 1774. It had been intended for the part of 
 " Miss Hardcastle," but Mrs. Bulkley, who played that 
 part, was no vocalist. Goldsmith himself sang it very agree- 
 ably to an Irish air, The Humours of Balamagairy. (See 
 Birkbeck Plill's Boswell, 1887, ii. 219.)]
 
 MISCELLANEO US PIECES. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 1 
 
 Addison, in some beautiful Latin lines inserted in the Spec- 
 tator, is' entirely of opinion that birds observe a strict 
 chastity of manners, and never admit the caresses of a 
 different tribe.— (». Spectator, No. 412.) 
 
 HASTE are their instincts, faithful is 
 
 their fire, 
 No foreign beauty tempts to false 
 
 desire ; 
 
 The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown, 
 The simple plumage, or the glossy down 
 Prompt not their love :— the patriot bird pursues 
 His well acquainted tints, and kindred hues. 
 Hence through their tribes no mix'd polluted flame, 
 No monster-breed to mark the groves with shame ; 
 But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true, 
 Thinks black alone is beauty's favourite hue. 
 The nightingale, with mutual passion blest, 
 Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest : 
 While the dark owl to court its partner flies, 
 And owns its offspring in their yellow eyes. 
 
 [1 From Goldsmith's History oftlie Earth and Animated 
 Nature, 1774, v., 312.] 
 
 u>
 
 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 EPITAPH ON THOMAS 
 PARNELL. 1 
 
 HIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's 
 
 name, 
 May speak our gratitude, but not his 
 
 fame. 
 
 What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, 
 That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ! 
 Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 
 And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 
 Needless to him the tribute we bestow — 
 The transitory breath of fame below : 
 More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 
 While converts thank their poet in the skies. 
 
 P This epitaph was first printed with The Haunch of 
 Venison, 1776. Parnell died in 171s, In 1770 Goldsmith 
 wrote his life.] 
 
 ^pr
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 123 
 
 THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 1 
 
 pHN TROTT was desired by two witty 
 peers 
 To tell them the reason why asses had 
 ears. 
 'An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given 
 
 to letters, 
 Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; 
 Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your 
 
 graces, 
 As I hope to be saved ! without thinking on 
 asses. ' 
 
 EPITAPH ON EDWARD 
 PURDON. 2 
 
 r ERE 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. 
 
 [1 First printed at p. 79 of Poems and Plays. By Oliver 
 Goldsmith, M.B. Dublin, 1777. It is there dated " Edin- 
 burgh, 1753-"] 
 
 [2 First printed as Goldsmith's in Poems and Plays, 
 I777> P- 79- Purdon had been at Trinity College, Dublin, 
 with Goldsmith. Swift wrote a somewhat similar epigram ; 
 but Goldsmith's model was probably La Mart dn Sieur 
 Etiennc. (Forster's Life. 1871, ii., 59.)]
 
 124 FORMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 EPILOGUE FOR MR. LEE 
 LEWES. 1 
 
 OLD ! Prompter, hold ! a word before 
 
 your nonsense ; 
 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 piebald vest, 
 Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 
 
 ( Takes off his mas/c.) 
 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 pursu'd ! 
 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 : 
 
 P Charles Lee Lewes (1740-1803) was the original "Young 
 Marlow " of She Stoops to Conquer. He had previously 
 been harlequin of the theatre, but he thoroughly succeeded 
 in his new part, and the grateful author wrote him this £/i- 
 Ugue for his Benefit, May 7, 1773.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 125 
 
 Shakespeare 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 retreating : 
 If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
 'Twas thus that Aesop'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 drumstick 
 
 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 
 
 behind, 
 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.)
 
 126 
 
 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN FOR ' 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. 
 OLD, 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, /bring 
 it. 
 
 [1 This Epilogue, given to Bishop Percy by Goldsmith, 
 was first printed at p. 82, vol. ii, of the Miscellaneous Works 
 of 1801. It was written with intent to conciliate the rival 
 claims of Mrs. Bulkley and Miss Catley, the former of 
 whom wished to speak, the latter to sing the Epilogue. 
 (See Cradock's Memoirs, 1826, i., 225.)]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 127 
 
 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. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 What if we leave it to the House ? 
 
 MRS. BULKLEY. 
 
 The House !— Agreed 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Agreed. 
 
 MRS. BULKLEY. 
 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.
 
 123 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 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 x 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. — Oh ! fatal news to tell : 
 Their hands are only lent to the Heinel. 2 
 
 [! A name derived from the Italian dish first patronized by 
 the "Macaroni Club," and afterwards extended to "the 
 younger and gayer part of our nobility and gentry, who, at 
 the same time that they gave in to the luxuries of eating, 
 went equally into the extravagancies of dress." (Macaroni 
 atid Theatrical Magazine, October, 1772.) See note to 
 the Dullissimo Macaroni in She Stoops to Conquer.] 
 
 [- Mademoiselle Anna-Frederica Heinel, a beautiful Prus- 
 sian danseuse at this time in London, afterwards the wife of 
 the elder Vestris.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 129 
 
 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'll 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 toule: 
 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, 
 1 1 wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner,' 
 Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
 Come end the contest here, and aid my party. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 
 Air — Ballinamon y. 
 Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, 
 Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack ; 
 For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, 
 
 K 

 
 i 3 o poems or goldsmith. 
 
 When the ladies are calling, to blush, and hang 
 back. 
 
 For you're always polite and attentive, 
 Still to amuse us inventive, 
 And death is your only preventive : 
 Your hands and your voices for me. 
 
 MRS. BULKLEY. 
 Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, 
 We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? 
 
 MISS CAT LEY. 
 
 And that our friendship may remain unbroken, 
 What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? 
 
 MRS. BULKLEY. 
 
 Agreed. 
 
 MISS CATLEY. 
 Agreed. 
 
 MRS. BULKLEY. 
 And now with late repentance, 
 Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. 
 Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit 
 To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 
 
 {Exeunt. )
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY MRS. 
 BULKLEY FOR 'SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." 
 
 f HERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, 2 
 A treasury for lost and missing things ; 
 Lost human wits have places there as- 
 signed them, 
 And they, who lose their senses, there may find 
 
 them. 
 But where's this place, this storehouse of the age ? 
 The Moon, says he : — but / affirm the Stage : 
 At least in many things, I think, I see 
 His lunar, and our mimic world agree. 
 Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, 3 
 We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down. 
 Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, 
 And sure the folks of both are lunatics. 
 But in this parallel my best pretence is, 
 That mortals visit both to find their senses. 
 To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits, 
 Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
 
 [1 This epilogue, also given to Bishop Percy by Goldsmith 
 in MS., was first printed in the Miscellaneous Works of 
 1801, ii, 87. Colman, the Manager, thought it " too bad to 
 be spoken," and the author accordingly wrote that printed 
 with She Stoops to Conquer in vol. ii. (See Cradock's 
 Memoirs, 1826, i, 225.)] 
 t 2 Orlando Furioso, Canto xxxiv.J 
 [ 3 Foote gave watine'es at the Haymarket.]
 
 132 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
 Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
 Hither the affected city dame advancing, 
 Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing, 
 Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, 
 Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson} 
 The Gamester too, whose wit's all high or low, 
 Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, 
 Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
 Finds his lost senses out, and pay his debts. 
 The Mohawk too, with angry phrases stored, 
 As ' Dam 'me, Sir,' and ' Sir, I wear a sword ; ' 
 Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, 
 Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
 Here come the sons of scandal and of news, 
 But find no sense — for they had none to lose. 
 Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser 
 Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser ; 
 Has he not seen how you your favour place, 
 On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace? 
 Without a star, a coronet or garter, 
 How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? 
 No high-life scenes, no sentiment : — the creature 
 Still stoops among the low to copy nature. 2 
 Yes, he's far gone : — and yet some pity fix, 
 The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. 
 
 I 1 A popular song bearing the name of a famous hornpipe 
 dancer and "toast" who died at Hampstead in 1767.] 
 [' An obvious reference to the title of the play.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 133 
 
 THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 1 
 
 [the persons. 
 
 First Jewish Prophet. First Chaldean Priest. 
 
 Second Jewish Prophet. Second Chaldean Priest. 
 
 Israeli ash Woman. Chaldean Woman. 
 
 Chorus of Youths and Virgins. 
 Scene. — The banks oj 'the River Euphrates, near Bafylou.] 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE. — Israelites sitting on the banks of the 
 Euphrates. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 E captive tribes, that hourly work and 
 weep 
 Where flows Euphrates murmuring to 
 the deep, 
 
 Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend, 
 And turn to God, your P'ather and your Friend. 
 Insulted, chain'd, and all the world a foe, 
 Our God alone is all we boast below. 
 
 [* The Captivity was set to music, but never performed. 
 It was 'first printed in the Miscellaneous Works (trade 
 edition), 1820. In 1837, Prior printed it again from another 
 MS. (Miscellaneous Works, 1837). It is here given mainly as 
 reproduced by Mr. Bolton Corney from the second version, 
 Author's MS. Two of the songs, with variations, were pub- 
 lished with The Haunch of Venison, 1776.I
 
 i 3 4 rOEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. 
 Our God is all we boast below, 
 
 To Him we turn our eyes ; 
 And every added weight of woe 
 Shall make our homage rise. 
 
 And though no temple richly drest, 
 
 Nor sacrifice is here ; 
 We'll make His temple in our breast, 
 
 And offer up a tear. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 That strain once more ; it bids remembrance rise, 
 And calls my long-lost country to mine eyes. 
 Ye fields of Sharon, drest in flowery pride, 
 Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide, 
 Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd, 
 Ye Gileacl groves, that fling perfumes around, 
 These hills how sweet, those plains how wondrous 
 
 fair, 
 But sweeter still when Heaven was with us there ! 
 
 AIR. 
 
 O Memory ! thou fond deceiver, 
 
 Still importunate and vain ; 
 To former joys recurring ever, 
 
 And turning all the past to pain : 
 
 Hence, deceiver most distressing ! 
 
 Seek the happy and the free : 
 The wretch who wants each other blessing, 
 
 Ever wants a friend in thee.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 135 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 Yet why repine? What though by bonds confin'd, 
 Should bonds enslave the vigour of the mind ? 
 Have we not cause for triumph when we see 
 Ourselves alone from idol-worship free ? 
 Are not this very day those rites begun 
 Where prostrate folly hails the rising sun ? 
 Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain 
 For superstitious rites and mirth profane ? 
 And should we mourn ? should coward virtue fly, 
 When impious folly rears her front on high ? 
 No ; rather let us triumph still the more, 
 And as our fortune sinks, our wishes soar. 
 
 AIR. 
 The triumphs that on vice attend 
 Shall ever in confusion end ; 
 The good man suffers but to gain, 
 And every virtue springs from pain : 
 
 As aromatic plants bestow 
 No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
 But crush'd, or trodden to the ground, 
 Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near, 
 The sound of barbarous mirth offends mine ear ; 
 Triumphant music floats along the vale, 
 Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale ;
 
 136 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The growing note their near approach declares ! 
 Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs. 
 
 Enter Chaldean Friesls attended. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 AIR. 
 
 Come on, my companions, the triumph display, 
 
 Let rapture the minutes employ ; 
 The sun calls us out on this festival day, 
 
 And our monarch partakes of our joy. 
 
 Like the sun, our great monarch all pleasure sup- 
 plies, 
 
 Both similar blessings bestow ; 
 The sun with his splendour illumines the skies, 
 
 And our monarch enlivens below. 
 
 AIR. 
 CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
 
 Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure, 
 Love presents its brightest treasure, 
 Leave all other sports for me. 
 
 A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. 
 
 Or rather, love's delights despising, 
 Haste to raptures ever rising, 
 
 Wine shall bless the brave and free. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 Wine and beauty thus inviting, 
 Each to different joys exciting, 
 Whither shall my choice incline?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 137 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 I'll waste no longer thought in choosing, 
 But, neither love nor wine refusing, 
 I'll make them both together mine. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 But whence, when joys should brighten o'er the 
 
 land, 
 This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band ? 
 Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung? 
 Or why those harps on yonder willows hung ? 
 Come, leave your griefs, and join our tuneful choir, 
 For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre ? 
 
 SECOND I'ROrHET. 
 
 Bow'd down with chains, the scorn of all mankind, 
 To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd, 
 Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, 
 And mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ? 
 No, never. May this hand forget each art 
 That speeds the powers of music to the heart, 
 Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, 
 Or join with sounds profane its sacred mirth ! 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 Insulting slaves ! if gentler methods fail, 
 The whip and angry tortures shall prevail. 
 
 [Exeunt Chaldeans. 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer — 
 We fear the Lord, and know no other fear.
 
 138 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Can whips or tortures hurt the mind 
 On God's supporting breast reclin'd ? 
 Stand fast, and let our tyrants see 
 That fortitude is victory. 
 
 End of the First Act.
 
 M ISC EL L A NEO US PIECES. 
 
 i39 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene. — As before. 
 
 CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. 
 
 PEACE of mind, thou lovely guest ! 
 Thou softest soother of the breast ! 
 
 Dispense thy balmy store ! 
 Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, 
 Till earth, diminish'd to our eyes, 
 Shall vanish as we soar. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 No more ! Too long has justice been delay'd, 
 The king's commands must fully be obey'd ; 
 Compliance with his will your peace secures, 
 Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. 
 But if, rebellious to his high command, 
 You spurn the favours offer'd at his hand, 
 Think, timely think, what ills remain behind ; 
 Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 AIR. 
 
 Fierce is the whirlwind howling 
 O'er Afric's sandy plain, 
 
 And fierce the tempest rolling 
 Along the furrow 'd main.
 
 x 4 o POEMS OP GOLDSMITH. 
 
 But storms that fly, 
 
 To rend the sky, 
 Every ill presaging, 
 
 Less dreadful show 
 
 To worlds below, 
 Than angry monarch's raging. 
 
 ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow, 
 How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow ! 
 Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth, 
 Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth ! 
 If shrinking thus, when frowning power appears 
 I wish for life, and yield me to my fears : 
 Let us one hour, one little hour obey ; 
 To-morrow's tears may wash our stains away. 
 
 AIR. 
 To the last moment of his breath 
 
 On hope the wretch relies ; 
 And e'en the pang preceding death 
 Bids expectation rise. 
 
 Hope, like the gleaming taper's light, 
 Adorns and cheers our way ; 
 
 And still, as darker grows the night, 
 Emits a brighter ray. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 Why this delay ? at length for joy prepare.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 141 
 
 I read your looks, and see compliance there. 
 Come, raise the strain, and grasp the full-ton'd 
 
 lyre— 
 The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire. 
 
 CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
 AIR. 
 
 See the ruddy morning smiling, 
 Hear the grove to bliss beguiling; 
 Zephyrs through the valley playing, 
 Streams along the meadow straying. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 
 While these a constant revel keep, 
 Shall reason only bid me weep ? 
 Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
 Nature, a better guide than you. 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 Every moment, as it flows, 
 Some peculiar pleasure owes ; 
 Then let us providently wise, 
 Seize the debtor as it flies. 
 
 Think not to-morrow can repay 
 The pleasures that we lose to-day ; 
 To-morrow's most unbounded store 
 Can but pay its proper score. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 But hush ! see, foremost of the captive choir, 
 The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre.
 
 i 4 2 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Mark where he sits with executing art, 
 
 Feels for each tone and speeds it to the heart ; 
 
 See inspiration fills his rising form, 
 
 Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm. 
 
 And now his voice, accordant to the string, 
 
 Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. 
 
 FIRST TROrHET. 
 AIR. 
 
 From north, from south, from east, from west, 
 
 Conspiring foes shall come ; 
 Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast ; 
 
 Blasphemers, all be dumb. 
 
 The tempest gathers all around, 
 
 On Babylon it lies ; 
 Down with her ! down, down to the ground ; 
 
 She sinks, she groans, she dies. 
 
 SECOND FRORIIET. 
 
 Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust, 
 
 Ere yonder setting sun ; 
 Serve her as she hath serv'd the just ! 
 
 'Tis fix'd — It shall be done. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 Enough ! when slaves thus insolent presume, 
 The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom. 
 Short-sighted wretches ! have not you, and all, 
 Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ? 
 To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes ; 
 Mark where dethron'd your captive monarch lies,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 143 
 
 Depriv'd of sight, and rankling in his chain ; 
 He calls on death to terminate his pain. 
 Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind 
 More ponderous chains, and dungeons more con- 
 fined. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Arise, All-potent Ruler, rise, 
 
 And vindicate thy people's cause ; 
 Till every tongue in every land 
 
 Shall offer up unfeign'd applause. 
 
 End of the Second Act.
 
 M4 
 
 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene. — As before. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 ES, my companions, Heaven's decrees 
 are past, 
 And our fix'd empire shall for ever last : 
 In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens 
 woe, 
 In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; 
 Still shall our fame and growing power be spread, 
 And still our vengeance crush the guilty head. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Coeval with man 
 Our empire began, 
 And never shall fall 
 Till ruin shakes all. 
 With the ruin of all, 
 Shall Babylon fall. 
 
 SECOND [FIRST] PROniET. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 'Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head, 
 A little while, and all their power is fled. 
 But ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 
 That this way slowly bends along the plain ? 
 And now, methinks, a pallid corse they bear 
 To yonder bank, and rest the body there.
 
 MISCELLANEO US PIECES. 
 
 Alas ! too well mine eyes observant trace 
 The last remains of Judah's royal race. 
 Our monarch falls, and now our fears are o'er, 
 The wretched Zedekiah is no more. 
 
 AIR. 
 Ye wretches who by fortune's hate 
 
 In want and sorrow groan, 
 Come ponder his severer fate 
 
 And learn to bless your own. 
 
 Ye sons, from fortune's lap supplied, 
 
 Awhile the bliss suspend ; 
 Like yours, his life began in pride, 
 
 Like his, your lives may end. 
 
 SECOND PROPHET. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 Behold his squalid corse with sorrow worn, 
 Mis wretched limbs with ponderous fetters torn; 
 Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare 
 These ill-becoming robes, and matted hair ! 
 And shall not Heaven for this its terrors show, 
 And deal its angry vengeance on the foe ? 
 How long, how long, Almighty Lord of all, 
 Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall ! 
 
 ISRAEI.ITISH WOMAN. 
 AIR. 
 
 As panting flies the hunted hind, 
 Where brooks refreshing stray ; 
 L
 
 146 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And rivers through the valley wind, 
 That stop the hunter's way ; 
 
 Thus we, Lord, alike distress'd, 
 
 For streams of mercy long ; 
 Those streams that cheer the sore oppress'd, 
 
 And overwhelm the strong. 
 
 FIRST FROrHET. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 But whence that shout ? Good heavens ! amaze 
 
 ment all ! 
 See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
 See where an army covers all the ground, 
 Saps the strong wall and pours destruction round ;— 
 The ruin smokes, destruction pours along — 
 How low the great, how feeble are the strong ! 
 The foe prevails, the lofty walls recline — 
 Oh, God of hosts, the victory is Thine 1 
 
 CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. 
 Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust ; 
 
 Let vengeance be begun ; 
 Serve her as she hath serv'd the just, 
 
 And let Thy Will be done. 
 
 FIRST PRIEST. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails, 
 Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails ! 
 Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ; 
 And give repentance but an hour's delay.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. , 47 
 
 SECOND PRIEST. 
 AIR. 
 
 Thrice happy, who in happy hour 
 To Heaven their praise bestow, 
 
 And own His all-consuming power 
 Before they feel the blow ! 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Now, now's our time ! ye wretches bold and 
 
 blind, 
 Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, 
 Too late you seek that power unsought before, 
 Your wealth, your pride, your empire, are no more. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 O Lucifer ! thou son of morn, 
 Alike of Heaven and man the foe ; 
 
 Heaven, men, and all, 
 
 Now press thy fall, 
 And sink thee lowest of the low. 
 
 SECOND PRIliST [PROPHET?] 
 
 O Babylon, how art thou fallen— 
 Thy fall more dreadful from delay ; 
 
 Thy streets forlorn 
 
 To wilds shall turn, 
 Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey ! 
 
 FIRST PROPHET. 
 RECITATIVE. 
 Such be their fate. But listen ! from afar
 
 t 4 S POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war ! 
 
 Cyrus, our great restorer, is at hand, 
 
 And this way leads his formidable band. 
 
 Now give your songs of Zion to the wind, 
 
 And hail the benefactor of mankind : 
 
 He comes pursuant to divine decree, 
 
 To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 
 
 CHORUS OF YOUTHS. 
 Rise to raptures past expressing. 
 
 Sweeter from remember'd woes ; 
 Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing, 
 
 Comes to give the world repose. 
 
 CHORUS OF VIRGINS. 
 
 Cyrus comes, the world redressing, 
 Love and pleasure in his train ; 
 
 Comes to heighten every blessing, 
 Comes to soften every pain. 
 
 CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS. 
 
 Hail to him with mercy reigning, 
 
 Skill'd in every peaceful art ; 
 Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining, 
 
 Only binds the willing heart. 
 
 LAST CHORUS. 
 
 Cut chief to Thee, our God, our Father, Friend, 
 Let praise be given to all eternity ; 
 
 O Thou, without beginning, without end — 
 Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS P/ECES. 149 
 
 VERSES IN RErLY TO AN INVITATION 
 TO DINNER AT DR. BAKER'S. 1 
 
 ' This is a poem ! This is a copy of verses ! 
 
 OUR mandate I got, 
 You may all go to pot ; 
 Had your senses been right, 
 You'd have sent before night ; 
 
 As I hope to be saved, 
 
 I put off being shaved ; 
 
 For I could not make bold, 
 
 While the matter was cold, 
 
 To meddle in suds, 
 
 Or to put on my duds ; 
 
 So tell Horneck 2 and Nesbitt, 3 
 
 And Baker 4 and his bit, 
 
 And Kauffman 3 beside, 
 
 And the Jessamy Bride, 
 
 t 1 Prior first printed this in the Miscellaneous Works of 
 1337, iv, 132, having obtained it from Major-General Sir 
 H. E. Bunbury, Bart., son of H. W. Bunbury, the artist. 
 (See note 1 to p. 152.)] 
 [ 2 Mrs. Horneck, widow of Captain Kane Horneck.] 
 [ 3 Mr. Thrale's brother-in-law.] 
 
 [ 4 Dr. (afterwards Sir) George Baker, Reynolds's doctor.] 
 [5 Angelica Kauffman, the artist, 17.10-1S.j7.] 
 t G Mrs. Horneck's younger daughter, Mary.]
 
 i 5 o POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 With the rest of the crow, 
 The Reynoldses two, 1 
 Little Comedy's face, 2 
 And the Captain in lace, 3 
 (By-the-bye 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 foot-guards 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 vext, 
 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, 
 
 t 1 Sir Joshua and his sister. ] 
 
 [ 2 Mrs. Horneck's elder daughter, Catherine. (See notes 
 
 P. 152-)] 
 
 [3 Captain Charles Homeck, Mrs. Horneck's son.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 151 
 
 But alas ! your good worships, how could they be 
 wiser, 
 
 When both have been spoil'd in to-day's Adver- 
 tiser i l 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 [1 An allusion to some complimentary verses which ap- 
 peared in that paper.J
 
 i 5 2 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 LETTER IN PROSE AND VERSE 
 TO MRS. BUNBURY. 1 
 
 Madam, 
 
 READ your letter with all that allow- 
 ance which critical candour could 
 require, but after all find so much to 
 object to, and so much to raise my in- 
 dignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious 
 answer. 
 
 I arn not so ignorant, Madam, as not to see 
 there are many sarcasms contained in it, and sole- 
 cisms also. (Solecism is a word that comes from 
 the town of Soleis in Attica, among the Greeks, 
 built by Solon, and applied as we use the word 
 Kidderminster for curtains from a town also of 
 that name ; — but this is learning you have no taste 
 for !)— I say, Madam, there are sarcasms in it, and 
 solecisms also. But, not to seem an ill-natured 
 critic, I'll take leave to quote your own words, 
 and give you my remarks upon them as they 
 occur. You begin as follows : — 
 
 ' I hope, my good Doctor, you soon will be here, 
 And your spring-velvet coat very smart will appear, 
 To open our ball the first day of the year.' 2 
 
 [' This letter, " probably written in 1773 or 1774," was first 
 printed by Prior in the Miscellaneous Works, 1837, iv, 148. 
 It was addressed to the "Little Comedy" of p. 150, by this 
 time married to II. W. Bunbury, the artist.] 
 
 [-' Mrs. liunbi:ry had apparently invited the poet (in rhyme) 
 to spend Christinas at the family seat of Great Barton in 
 Suffolk.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 153 
 
 Pray, Madam, where did you ever find the 
 epithet 'good,' applied to the title of Doctor? 
 Had you called me 'learned Doctor,' or 'grave 
 Doctor,' or 'noble Doctor,' it might be allowable, 
 because they belong to the profession. But, not 
 to cavil at trifles, you talk of my ' spring- velvet 
 coat,' and advise me to wear it the first day in the 
 year, — that is, in the middle of winter ! — a spring- 
 velvet in the middle of winter ! ! ! That would be 
 a solecism indeed ! and yet, to increase the incon- 
 sistence, in another part of your letter you call me 
 a beau. Now, on one side or other, you must be 
 wrong. If I am a beau, I can never think of 
 wearing a spring-velvet in winter : and if I am 
 not a beau, why then, that explains itself. But 
 let me go on to your two next strange lines : — 
 
 'And bring with you a wig, that is modish and gay, 
 To dance with the girls that are makers of hay.' 
 
 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 cf 
 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 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.
 
 i 5 4 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 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 fix'd 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, yet, 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? 1 take courage, 
 
 come do,' — ■ 
 ' Who, I? let me see, Sir, why I must pass too.' 
 Mr. 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 ! ' 
 
 f 1 Mary Horneck, see p. 149 and note. She ultimately 
 married Colonel Gwyn, and survived until 1840. Reynolds 
 and Hoppner both painted her.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 155 
 
 Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplex'd, 
 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, iflaw-matters you're skill'd in, 
 Whether crimes such as yours should not come 
 
 before Fielding ? ' 
 For giving advice that is not worth a straw, 
 May well be call'd picking of pockets in law ; 
 And picking of pockets, with which I now charge 
 
 Is, by quinto Elizabeth, Death without Clergy. 
 
 What justice, when both to the Old Bailey brought ! 
 
 By the gods, I'll enjoy it ; though 'tis but in 
 thought ! 
 
 Both are plac'd at the bar, with all proper de- 
 corum, 
 
 With bunches of fennel, and nosegays before 'em ; 2 
 
 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 runs round,— 
 
 f 1 Sir John Fielding, d. 1780, Henry Fielding's blind half- 
 brother and successor at Bow Street.] 
 
 [ 2 A practice dating from the goal-fever of 1750.]
 
 i 5 6 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ' 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 sur- 
 prise one ! 
 Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on ! ' 
 Then their friends all come round me with cring- 
 ing and leering, 
 To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing. 
 First Sir Charles l 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. Leonai-d, Shore- 
 ditch, 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 !' — 
 
 [ l Sir Charles Bunbury, Henry Bunbury's elder brother, 
 died s.p. 1821.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 157 
 
 '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.
 
 i 5 8 FOE MS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 VIDA'S GAME OF CHESS. 
 
 TRANSLATED. 
 
 RMIES of box that sportively engage 
 And mimic real battles in their rage, 
 Pleas'd I recount ; how, smit with 
 glory's charms, 
 Two mighty Monarchs met in adverse arms, 
 Sable and white ; assist me to explore, 
 Ye Serian Nymphs, what ne'er was sung before. 
 No path appears : yet resolute I stray 
 Where youth undaunted bids me force my way. 
 O'er rocks and cliffs while I the task pursue, 
 Guide me, ye Nymphs, with your unerring clue. 
 For you the rise of this diversion know, 
 You first were pleas'd in Italy to show 
 This studious sport ; from Scacchis was its name, 
 The pleasing record of your Sister's fame. 
 
 When Jove through Ethiopia's parch'd extent 
 To grace the nuptials of old Ocean went, 
 Each god was there ; and mirth and joy around 
 To shores remote diffus'd their happy sound. 
 Then when their hunger and their thirst no more 
 Claim'd their attention, and the feast was o'er ; 
 
 [' This translation of Marco Vida's Scacckice Ludus was 
 first printed by Mr. Peter Cunningham in 1854, from a 
 manuscript in Goldsmith's hand-writing then in the posses- 
 sion of Mr. 1'iolton Corney, who, with Mr. Forster, believed 
 it to be by Goldsmith.]
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 159 
 
 Ocean, with pastime to divert the thought, 
 Commands a painted table to be brought. 
 Sixty-four spaces fill the chequer' d square ; 
 Eight in each rank eight equal limits share. 
 Alike their form, but different are their dyes, 
 They fade alternate, and alternate rise, 
 White after black ; such various stains as those 
 The shelving backs of tortoises disclose. 
 Then to the Gods that mute and wondering sate, 
 You see (says he) the field prepared for fate. 
 Here will the little armies please your sight, 
 With adverse colours hurrying to the fight : 
 On which so oft, with silent sweet surprise, 
 The Nymphs and Nereids used to feast their eyes, 
 And all the neighbours of the hoary deep, 
 When calm the sea, and winds were lull'd asleep. 
 But see, the mimic heroes tread the board ; 
 He said, and straightway from an urn he pour'd 
 The sculptur'd box, that neatly seem'd to ape 
 The graceful figure of a human shape : — 
 Equal the strength and number of each foe, 
 Sixteen appear'd like jet, sixteen like snow. 
 As their shape varies various is the name, 
 Different their posts, nor is their strength the 
 
 same. 
 There might you see two Kings with equal pride 
 Gird on their arms, their Consorts by their side ; 
 Here the Foot-warriors glowing after fame, 
 There prancing Knights and dexterous Archers 
 
 came 
 And Elephants, that on their backs sustain 
 Vast towers of war, and fill and shake the plain. 
 And now both hosts, preparing for the storm
 
 160 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Of adverse battle, their encampments form. 
 
 In the fourth space, and on the farthest line, 
 
 Directly opposite the Monarchs shine ; 
 
 The swarthy on white ground, on sable stands 
 
 The silver King ; and thence they send commands. 
 
 Nearest to these the Queens exert their might ; 
 
 One the left side, and t'other guards the right : 
 
 Where each, by her respective armour known, 
 
 Chooses the colour that is like her own. 
 
 Then the young Archers, two that snowy- white 
 
 Bend the tough yew, and two as black as night ; 
 
 (Greece called them Mars's favourites heretofore, 
 
 From their delight in war, and thirst of gore). 
 
 These on each side the Monarch and his Queen 
 
 Surround obedient ; next to these are seen 
 
 The crested Knights in golden armour gay ; 
 
 Their steeds by turns curvet, or snort or neigh. 
 
 In either army on each distant wing 
 
 Two mighty Elephants their castles bring, 
 
 Bulwarks immense ! and then at last combine 
 
 Eight of the Foot to form the second line, 
 
 The vanguard to the King and Queen ; from far 
 
 Prepared to open all the fate of war. 
 
 So moved the boxen hosts, each double-lined, 
 
 Their different colours floating in the wind : 
 
 As if an army of the Gauls should go, 
 
 With their white standards, o'er the Alpine snow 
 
 To meet in rigid fight on scorching sands 
 
 The sun-burnt Moors and Memnon's swarthy kinds. 
 
 Then Father Ocean thus ; you see them here, 
 Celestial Powers, what troops, what camps appear. 
 Learn now the sev'ral orders of the fray, 
 For ev'n these arms their stated laws obey.
 
 Miscellaneous pieces. 161 
 
 To lead the fight, the Kings from all their bands 
 Choose whom they please to bear their great com- 
 mands. 
 Should a black hero first to battle go, \ 
 
 Instant a white one guards against the blow ; [• 
 But only one at once can charge or shun the foe. ) 
 Their gen'ral purpose on one scheme is bent, 
 So to besiege the King within the tent, 
 That there remains no place by subtle flight 
 From danger free ; and that decides the fight. 
 Meanwhile, howe'er, the sooner to destroy 
 Th' imperial Prince, remorseless they employ 
 Their swords in blood ; and whosoever dare 
 Oppose their vengeance, in the ruin share. 
 Fate thins their camp ; 'the parti-colour'd field 
 Widens apace, as they o'ercome or yield, 
 But the proud victor takes the captive's post ; 
 There fronts the fury of th' avenging host 
 One single shock : and (should he ward the blow), 
 May then retire at pleasure from the foe. 
 The Foot alone (so their harsh laws ordain) 
 When they proceed can ne'er return again. 
 
 But neither all rush on alike to prove 
 The terror of their arms : the Foot must move 
 Directly on, and but a single square ; 
 Yet may these heroes, when they first prepare 
 To mix in combat on the bloody mead, 
 Double their sally, and two steps proceed ; 
 But when they wound, their swords they subtly 
 
 guide 
 With aim oblique, and slanting pierce his side. 
 But the great Indian beasts, whose backs sustain 
 Vast turrets arm'd, when on the redd'ning plain 
 M
 
 i6 2 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 They join in all the terror of the fight, 
 
 Forward or backward, to the left or right, 
 
 Run furious, and impatient of confine 
 
 Scour through the field, and threat the farthest 
 
 line. 
 Yet must they ne'er obliquely aim their blows ; ^j 
 That only manner is allow'd to those 
 Whom Mars has favour'd most, who bend the j 
 
 stubborn bows. 
 These glancing sideways in a straight career, 
 Yet each confin'd to their respective sphere, 
 Or white or black, can send th' unerring dart 
 Wing'd with swift death to pierce through ev'ry 
 
 part. 
 The fiery steed, regardless of the reins, 
 Comes prancing on ; but sullenly disdains 
 The path direct, and boldly wheeling round, 
 Leaps o'er a double space at ev'ry bound : 
 And shifts from white or black to diff'rcnt 
 
 colour 'd ground. 
 But the fierce Queen, whom dangers ne'er dismay, 
 The strength and terror of the bloody day, 
 In a straight line spreads her destruction wide, 
 To left or right, before, behind, aside. 
 Yet may she never with a circling course 
 Sweep to the battle like the fretful Horse ; 
 But unconfin'd may at her pleasure stray, 
 If neither friend nor foe block up the way ; 
 For to o'erleap a warrior, 'tis decreed 
 Those only dare who curb the snorting steed. 
 With greater caution and majestic state 
 The warlike Monarchs in the scene of fate 
 Direct their motions, since for these appear
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 163 
 
 Zealous each hope, and anxious ev'ry fear. 
 While the King's safe, with resolution stern 
 They clasp their arms ; but should a sudden turn 
 Make him a captive, instantly they yield, 
 Resolv'd to share his fortune in the field. 
 He moves on slow ; with reverence profound 
 His faithful troops encompass him around, 
 And oft, to break some instant fatal scheme, 
 Rush to their fates, their sov'reign to redeem ; 
 While he, unanxious where to wound the foe, 
 Need only shift and guard against a blow. 
 But none, however, can presume t' appear 
 Within his reach, but must his vengeance fear ; 
 For he on ev'ry side his terror throws ; 
 But when he changes from his first repose, 
 Moves but one step, most awfully sedate, 
 Or idly roving, or intent on fate. 
 These are the sev'ral and establish 'd laws: 
 Now see how each maintains his bloody cause. 
 Here paused the God, but (since whene'er they 
 wage 
 War here on earth the Gods themselves engage 
 In mutual battle as they hate or love, 
 And the most stubborn war is oft above) 
 Almighty Jove commands the circling train 
 Of Gods from fav'ring either to abstain, 
 And let the fight be silently survey'd ; 
 And added solemn threats if disobey'd. 
 Then call'd he Phcebus from among the Powers 
 And subtle Hermes, whom in softer hours 
 Fair Maia bore : youth wanton 'd in their face; 
 Both in life's bloom, both shone with equal grace. 
 Hermes as yet had never wing'd his feet ;
 
 164 rOEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 As yet Apollo in his radiant seat 
 
 Had never driv'n his chariot through the air, 
 
 Known by his bow alone and golden hair. 
 
 These Jove commission'd to attempt the fray, 
 
 And rule the sportive military clay ; 
 
 Bid them agree which party each maintains, 
 
 And promis'd a reward that's worth their pains. 
 
 The greater took their seats ; on either hand 
 
 Respectful the less Gods in order stand, 
 
 But careful not to interrupt their play, 
 
 By hinting when t' advance or run away. 
 
 Then they examine, who shall first proceed 
 To try their courage, and their army lead. 
 Chance gave it for the White, that he should go 
 First with a brave defiance to the foe. 
 Awhile he ponder'd which of all his train 
 Should bear his first commission o'er the plain ; 
 And then determin'd to begin the scene 
 With him that stood before to guard the Queen. 
 He took a double step : with instant care 
 Does the black Monarch in his turn prepare 
 The adverse champion, and with stern command 
 Bid him repel the charge with equal hand. 
 There front to front, the midst of all the field, 
 With furious threats their shining arms they wield ; 
 Yet vain the conflict, neither can prevail 
 While in one path each other they assail. 
 On ev'ry side to their assistance fly 
 Their fellow soldiers, and with strong supply 
 Crowd to the battle, but no bloody stain 
 Tinctures their armour ; sportive in the plain 
 Mars plays awhile, and in excursion slight 
 Harmless they sally forth, or wait the fight.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. ,65 
 
 But now the swarthy Foot, that first appear'd 
 To front the foe, his pond'rous jav'lin rear'd 
 Leftward aslant, and a pale warrior slays, 
 Spurns him aside, and boldly takes his place. 
 Unhappy youth, his danger not to spy ! 
 Instant he fell, and triumph'd but to die. 
 At this the sable King with prudent care 
 Remov'd his station from the middle square, 
 And slow retiring to the farthest ground, 
 There safely lurk'd, with troops entrench 'd around. 
 Then from each quarter to the war advance 
 The furious Knights, and poise the trembling lance : 
 By turns they rush, by turns the victors yield, 
 Heaps of dead Foot choke up the crimson'd field : 
 They fall unable to retreat ; around 
 The clang of arms and iron hoofs resound. 
 
 But while young Phoebus pleas'd himself to view 
 His furious Knight destroy the vulgar crew, 
 Sly Hermes long'd t' attempt with secret aim 
 Some noble act of more exalted fame. 
 For this, he inoffensive pass'd along 
 Through ranks of Foot, and midst the trembling 
 
 throng 
 Sent his left Horse, that free without confine 
 Rov'd o'er the plain, upon some great design 
 Against the King himself. At length he stood, 
 And having fix'd his station as he would, 
 Threaten'd at once with instant fate the Kin<7 
 
 o 
 
 And th' Indian beast that guarded the right wing. 
 
 Apollo sigh'd, and hast'ning to relieve 
 
 The straiten'd Monarch, griev'd that he must leave 
 
 His martial Elephant exposed to fate, 
 
 And view'd with pitying eyes his dang'rous staU
 
 166 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 First in his thoughts however was his care 
 
 To save his King, whom to the neighbouring square 
 
 On the right hand, he snatch'd with trembling 
 
 flight ; 
 At this with fury springs the sable Knight, 
 Drew his keen sword, and rising to the blow, 
 Sent the great Indian brute to shades below. 
 O fatal loss ! for none except the Queen 
 Spreads such a terror through the bloody scene. 
 Yet shall you ne'er unpunish'd boast your prize, 
 The Delian God with stern resentment cries ; 
 And wedg'd him round with foot, and pour'd in 
 
 fresh supplies. 
 Thus close besieg'd trembling he cast his eye 
 Around the plain, but saw no shelter nigh, 
 No way for flight ; for here the Queen oppos'd, 
 The Foot in phalanx there the passage clos'd : 
 At length he fell ; yet not unpleas'd with fate, 
 Since victim t ) a Queen's vindictive hate. 
 With grief and fury burns the whiten'd host, 
 One of their Tow'rS thus immaturely lost. 
 As when a bull has in contention stern 
 Lost his right horn, with double vengeance burn 
 His thoughts for war, with blood he's cover'd o'er, 
 And the woods echo to his dismal roar, 
 So look'd the flaxen host, when angry fate 
 O'erturn'd the Indian bulwark of their state. 
 Fir'd at this great success, with double rage 
 Apollo hurries on his troops t' engage, 
 For blood and havoc wild ; and, while he leads 
 His troops thus careless, loses both his steeds : 
 For if some adverse warriors were o'erthrown, 
 He little thought what dangers threat his own.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 167 
 
 But slyer Hermes with observant < yes ~\ 
 
 March'd slowly cautious, and at distance spies 
 What moves must next succeed, what dangers f 
 
 next arise. 
 Often would he, the stately Queen to snare, 
 The slender Foot to front her arms prepare, 
 And to conceal his scheme he sighs and feigns 
 Such a wrong step would frustrate all his pains. 
 Just then an Archer, from the right-hand view, 
 At the pale Queen his arrow boldly drew, 
 Unseen by Phoebus, who, with studious thought, 
 From the left side a vulgar hero brought. 
 But tender Venus, with a pitying eye, 
 Viewing the sad destruction that was nigh, 
 Wink'd upon Phcebus (for the Goddess sat 
 By chance directly opposite) ; at that 
 Rous'd in an instant, young Apollo threw 
 His eyes around the field his troops to view ; 
 Perceiv'd the danger, and with sudden fright 
 Withdrew the Foot that he had sent to fieht. 
 And sav'd his trembling Queen by seasonable 
 
 flight. 
 
 But Maia's son with shouts fill'd all the coast : 
 The Queen, he cried, the important Queen is lost. 
 Phcebus, howe'er, resolving to maintain 
 What he had done, bespoke the heavenly train. 
 
 What mighty harm, in sportive mimic fight, 
 Is it to set a little blunder right, 
 When no preliminary rule debarr'd ? 
 If you henceforward, Mercury, would guard 
 Against such practice, let us make the law : 
 And whosoe'er shall first to battle draw, 
 Or white, or black, remorseless let him go
 
 1 68 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 At all events, and dare the angry foe. 
 
 He said, and this opinion pleas'd around : 
 Jove turn'd aside, and on his daughter frown'd, 
 Unmark'd by Hermes, who, with strange surprise, 
 Fretted and foam'd, and roll'd his ferret eyes, 
 And but with great reluctance could refrain 
 From dashing at a blow all off the plain. 
 Then he resolv'd to interweave deceits, — ■ 
 To carry on the war by tricks and cheats. 
 Instant he call'd an Archer from the throng, 
 And bid him like the courser wheel along : 
 Bounding he springs, and threats the pallid Queen. 
 The fraud, however, was by Phcebus seen ; 
 He smil'd, and, turning to the Gods, he said : 
 Though, Hermes, you are perfect in your trade, 
 And you can trick and cheat to great surprise, 
 These little sleights no more shall blind my eyes ; 
 Correct them if you please, the more you thus 
 
 disguise. 
 
 The circle laugh'd aloud ; and Maia's son 
 (As if it had but by mistake been done) 
 Recall'd his Archer, and with motion due, 
 Bid him advance, the combat to renew. 
 But Phoebus watch'd him with a jealous eye, 
 Fearing some trick was ever lurking nigh, 
 For he would oft, with sudden sly design, 
 Send forth at once two combatants to join 
 His warring troops, against the law of arms, 
 Unless the wary foe was ever in alarms. 
 
 Now the white Archer with his utmost force 
 Bent the tough bow against the sable Horse, 
 And drove him from the Queen, where he had 
 
 stood
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 169 
 
 Hoping to glut his vengeance with her blood. 
 Then the right Elephant with martial pride 
 Rov'd here and there, and spread his terrors wide : 
 Glittering in arms from far a courser came, 
 Threaten'd at once the King and Royal Dame ; 
 Thought himself safe when he the post had seiz'd, 
 And with the future spoils his fancy pleas'd. 
 Fir'd at the danger a young Archer came, 
 Rush'd on the foe, and levell'd sure his aim ; 
 (And though a Pawn his sword in vengeance 
 
 draws, 
 Gladly he'd lose his life in glory's cause). 
 The whistling arrow to his bowels flew, 
 And the sharp steel his blood profusely drew ; 
 He drops the reins, he totters to the ground, 
 And his life issu'd murm'ring through the wound. 
 Tierc'd by the Foot, this Archer bit the plain ; ^ 
 The Foot himself was by another slain ; I 
 
 And with inflam'd revenge, the battle bums j 
 
 again. J 
 
 Towers, Archers, Knights, meet on the crimson 
 
 ground, 
 And the field echoes to the martial sound. 
 Their thoughts are heated, and their courage 
 
 fir'd, 
 Thick they rush on with double zeal inspir'd ; 
 Generals and Foot, with different colour'd mien,"\ 
 Confus'dly warring in the camps are seen, — 
 Valour and Fortune meet in one promiscuous j 
 
 scene. J 
 
 Now these victorious, lord it o'er the field ; 
 Now the foe rallies, the triumphant yield : 
 Just as the tide of battle ebbs or flows.
 
 i 7 o POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 As when the conflict more tempestuous grows 
 Between the winds, with strong and boisterous 
 
 sweep 
 They plough th' Ionian or Atlantic deep ! 
 By turns prevails the mutual blustering roar, 
 And the big waves alternate lash the shore. 
 
 But in the midst of all the battle rag'd 
 The snowy Queen, with troops at once engag'd ; 
 She fell'd an Archer as she sought the plain,— 
 As she retir'd an Elephant was slain : 
 To right and left her fatal spears she sent, 
 Burst through the ranks, and triumph'd as she 
 
 went ; 
 Through arms and blood she seeks a glorious fate, 
 Pierces the farthest lines, and nobly great 
 Leads on her army with a gallant show, 
 Breaks the battalions, and cuts through the foe. 
 At length the sable King his fears betray'd, 
 And begg'd his military consort's aid : 
 With cheerful speed she flew to his relief, 
 And met in equal arms the female chief. 
 
 Who first, great Queen, and who at last did 
 bleed? 
 How many Whites lay gasping on the mead ? 
 Half dead, and floating in a bloody tide, 
 Foot, Knights, and Archer lie on every side. 
 Who can recount the slaughter of the day ? 
 How many leaders threw their lives away ? 
 The chequer'd plain is fill'd with dying box, 
 Havoc ensues, and with tumultuous shocks 
 The different colour'd ranks in blood engage, 
 And Foot and Horse promiscuously rage. 
 With nobler courage and superior might
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 171 
 
 The dreadful Amazons sustain the fight, 
 Resolv'd alike to mix in glorious strife, 
 Till to imperious fate they yield their life. 
 
 Meanwhile each Monarch, in a neighbouring 
 cell, 
 Confin'd the warriors that in battle fell, 
 There watch'd the captives with a jealous eye, 
 Lest, slipping out again, to arms they fly. 
 But Thracian Mars, in steadfast friendship join'd 
 To Hermes, as near Phoebus he reclin'd, 
 Observ'd each chance, how all their motions bend, 
 Resolv'd if possible to serve his friend. 
 He a Foot-soldier and a Knight purloin'd 
 Out from the prison that the dead confin'd ; 
 And slyly push'd 'em forward on the plain ; ^ 
 Th' enliven'd combatants their arms regain, 
 Mix in the bloody scene, and boldly war again. J 
 
 So the foul hag, in screaming wild alarms, 
 O'er a dead carcase muttering her charms 
 (And with her frequent and tremendous yell 
 Forcing great Hecate from out of hell), 
 Shoots in the corpse a new fictitious soul ; ^ 
 
 With instant glare the supple eyeballs roll, \ 
 
 Again it moves and speaks, and life informs the 
 whole. ' 
 
 Vulcan alone discern'd the subtle cheat ; 
 And wisely scorning such a base deceit, 
 Call'd out to Phoebus. Grief and rage assail 
 Phoebus by turns ; detected Mars turns pale. 
 Then awful Jove with sullen eye reprov'd 
 Mars, and the captives order'd to be mov'd 
 To their dark caves ; bid each fictitious spear 
 Be straight recall'd, and all be as they were.
 
 172 FOX MS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And now both Monarchs with redoubl'd rage 
 Led on their Queens, the mutual war to wage. 
 O'er all the field their thirsty spears they send, 
 Then front to front their Monarchs they defend. 
 But lo ! the female White rush'd in unseen, 
 And slew with fatal haste the swarthy Queen ; 
 Yet, soon, alas ! resign'd her royal spoils, 
 Snatch'd by a shaft from her successful toils. 
 Struck at the sight, both hosts in wild surprise 
 Pour'd forth their tears, and fill'd the air with cries ; 
 They wept and sigh'd, as pass'd the fun'ral train, 
 As if both armies had at once been slain. 
 
 And now each troop surrounds its mourning chief, 
 To guard his person, or assuage his grief. 
 One is their common fear ; one stormy blast 
 Has equally made havoc as it pass'd. 
 Not all, however, of their youth are slain ; 
 Some champions yet the vig'rous war maintain. 
 Three Foot, an Archer, and a stately Tower, 
 For Phoebus still exert their utmost power. 
 Just the same number Mercury can boast, 
 Except the Tower, who lately in his post 
 Unarm'd inglorious fell, in peace profound, 
 Pierced by an Archer with a distant wound ; 
 But his right Horse retain'd its mettled pride, — 
 The rest were swept away by war's strong tide. 
 
 But fretful Hermes, with despairing moan, 
 Griev'd that so many champions were o'erthroun, 
 Yet reassumes the fight ; and summons round 
 The little straggling army that he found, — ■ 
 All that had 'scap'd from fierce Apollo's rage, — 
 Resolv'd with greater caution to engage 
 In future strife, by subtle wiles (if fate
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 173 
 
 Should give him leave) to save his sinking state. 
 The sable troops advance with prudence slow, 
 Bent on all hazards to distress the foe. 
 More cheerful Phcebus, with unequal pace, 
 Rallies his arms to lessen his disgrace. 
 But what strange havoc everywhere has been ! 
 A straggling champion here and there is seen ; 
 And many are the tents, yet few are left within. 
 
 Th' afflicted Kings bewail their consorts dead, 
 And loathe the thoughts of a deserted bed ; 
 And though each monarch studies to improve 
 The tender mem'ry of his former love, 
 Their state requires a second nuptial tie. 
 Hence the pale ruler with a love-sick eye 
 Surveys th' attendants of his former wife, 
 And offers one of them a royal life. 
 These, when their martial mistress had been slain, 
 Weak and despairing tried their arms in vain ; 
 Willing, howe'er, amidst the Black to go, 
 They thirst for speedy vengeance on the foe. 
 Then he resolves to see who merits best, 
 By strength and courage, the imperial vest ; 
 Points out the foe, bids each with bold design 
 Pierce through the ranks, and reach the deepest 
 
 line : 
 For none must hope with monarchs to repose 
 But who can first, through thick surrounding foes, 
 Through arms and wiles, with hazardous essay, 
 Safe to the farthest quarters force their way. 
 Fir'd at the thought, with sudden, joyful pace 
 They hurry on ; but first of all the race 
 Runs the third right-hand warrior for the prize, — 
 The glitt'ring crown already charms her eyes.
 
 i 7 4 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Her clear associates cheerfully give o'er \ 
 
 The nuptial chase ; and swift she flies before, J- 
 And Glory lent her wings, and the reward in store. J 
 Nor would the sable King her hopes prevent, 
 For he himself was on a Queen intent, 
 Alternate, therefore, through the field they go. 
 Hermes led on, but by a step too slow, 
 His fourth left Pawn : and now th' advent'rous 
 
 White 
 Had march'd through all, and gain'd the wish'd- 
 
 for site. 
 Then the pleas'd King gives orders to prepare 
 The crown, the sceptre, and the royal chair, 
 And owns her for his Queen : around exult 
 The snowy troops, and o'er the Black insult. 
 Hermes burst into tears, — with fretful roar 
 Fill'd the wide air, and his gay vesture tore. 
 The swarthy Foot had only to advance 
 One single step ; but oh ! malignant chance ! 
 A tower'd Elephant, with fatal aim, 
 Stood ready to destroy her when she came : 
 He keeps a watchful eye upon the whole, 
 Threatens her entrance, and protects the goal. 
 Meanwhile the royal new-created bride, 
 Pleas'd with her pomp, spread death and terror wide ; 
 Like lightning through the sable troops she flies, 
 Clashes her arms, and seems to threat the skies. 
 The sable troops are sunk in wild affright, 
 And wish th' earth op'ning snatch'd 'em from her 
 
 sight. 
 In burst the Queen, with vast impetuous swing : \ 
 The trembling foes come swarming round the v 
 
 King, j
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 175 
 
 '} 
 
 Where in the midst he stood, and form a valian 
 
 ring. 
 
 So the poor cows, straggling o'er pasture land, 
 When they perceive the prowling wolf at hand, 
 Crowd close together in a circle full, 
 And beg the succour of the lordly bull ; 
 They clash their horns, they low with dreadful 
 
 sound, 
 And the remotest groves re-echo round. 
 
 But the bold Queen, victorious, from behind 
 Pierces the foe ; yet chiefly she design'd 
 Against the King himself some fatal aim, 
 And full of war to his pavilion came. 
 Now here she rush'd, now there ; and had she been 
 But duly prudent, she had slipp'd between, 
 With course oblique, into the fourth white square, 
 And the long toil of war had ended there, 
 The King had fall'n, and all his sable state ; 
 And vanquished Hermes curs'd his partial fate. 
 For thence with ease the championess might go, 
 Murder the King, and none could ward the blow, 
 
 With silence, Hermes, and with panting heart, 
 Perceiv'd the danger, but with subtle art 
 (Lest he should see the place) spurs on the foe, 
 Confounds his thoughts, and blames his being slow. 
 For shame ! move on ; would you for ever stay? 
 What sloth is this, what strange perverse delay ? — 
 How could you e'er my little pausing blame ? — 
 What ! you would wait till night shall end the game? 
 Phcebus, thus nettled, with imprudence slew 
 A vulgar Pawn, but lost his nobler view. 
 Young Hermes leap'd, with sudden joy elate ; 
 And then, to save the monarch from his fate,
 
 i 7 6 rOE31S OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Led on his martial Knight, who stepp'd between, 
 Pleas'd that his charge was to oppose the Queen — 
 Then, pondering how the Indian beast to slay, 
 That stopp'd the Foot from making farther way, — 
 From being made a Queen ; with slanting aim 
 An Archer struck him ; down the monster came, 
 And dying shook the earth : while Phcebus tries 
 Without success the monarch to surprise. 
 The Foot, then uncontroll'd with instant pride, 
 Seiz'd the last spot, and mov'd a royal bride. 
 And now with equal strength both war again, 
 And bring their second wives upon the plain ; 
 Then, though with equal views each hop'd and 
 
 fear'd, 
 Yet, as if every doubt had disappear'd, 
 As if he had the palm, young Hermes flies 
 Into excess of joy ; with deep disguise, 
 Extols his own Black troops, with frequent spite 
 And with invective taunts disdains the White. 
 Whom Phcebus thus reprov'd with quick return — 
 As yet we cannot the decision learn 
 Of this dispute, and do you triumph now? 
 Then your big words and vauntings I'll allow, 
 When you the battle shall completely gain ; 
 At present I shall make your boasting vain. 
 He said, and forward led the daring Queen ; 
 Instant the fury of the bloody scene 
 Rises tumultuous, swift the warriors fly 
 From either side to conquer or to die. 
 They front the storm of war ; around 'em Fear, 
 Terror, and Death, perpetually appear. 
 All meet in arms, and man to man oppose, 
 Each from their camp attempts to drive their foes ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. i 77 
 
 Each tries by turns to force the hostile lines ; 
 Chance and impatience blast their best designs. 
 The sable Queen spread terror as she went 
 Through the mid ranks : with more reserv'd intent 
 The adverse dame declin'd the open fray, 
 Arid to the King in private stole away : 
 Then took the royal guard, and bursting in, 
 With fatal menace close besieg'd the King. 
 Alarm'd at this, the swarthy Queen, in haste, 
 From all her havoc and destructive waste 
 Broke off, and her contempt of death to show, 
 Leap'd in between the monarch and the foe, 
 To save the King and state from this impending 
 
 blow. 
 But Phcebus met a worse misfortune here : 
 For Hermes now led forward, void of fear, 
 His furious Horse into the open plain, 
 That onward chaf'd, and pranc'd, and paw'd 
 
 amain. 
 Nor ceas'd from his attempts until he stood 
 On the long-wish 'd-for spot, from whence he could 
 Slay King or Queen. O'erwhelm'd with sudden 
 
 fears, 
 Apollo saw, and could not keep from tears. 
 Now all seem'd ready to be overthrown ; 
 His strength was wither'd, ev'ry hope was flown. 
 Hermes, exulting at this great surprise, 
 Shouted for joy, and fill'd the air with cries ; 
 Instant he sent the Queen to shades below, 
 And of her spoils made a triumphant show. 
 But in return, and in his mid career, 
 Fell his brave Knight, beneath the Monarch's spear, 
 Phcebus, however, did not yet despair, 
 N
 
 i;8 POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 But still fought on with courage and with care. 
 He had but two poor common men to show, 
 And Mars's favourite with his iv'ry bow. 
 The thoughts of ruin made 'em dare their best 
 To save their King, so fatally distress'd. 
 But the sad hour rcquir'd not such an aid ; 
 And Hermes breath'd revenge where'er he stray'd. 
 Fierce comes the sable Queen with fatal threat, 
 Surrounds the monarch in his royal seat : 
 Rush'd here and there, nor rested till she slew 
 The last remainder of the whiten'd crew. 
 Sole stood the King, the midst of all the plain, 
 Weak and defenceless, his companions slain, 
 As when the ruddy morn ascending high 
 Has chas'd the twinkling stars from all the sky, 
 Your star, fair Venus, still retains its light, 
 And, loveliest, goes the latest out of sight. 
 No safety's left, no gleams of hope remain ; 
 Yet did he not as vanquish'd quit the plain, 
 But tried to shut himself between the foe, — \ 
 Unhurt through swords and spears he hoped to go, [■ 
 Until no room was left to shun the fatal blow i 
 For if none threat en 'd his immediate fate, 
 And his next move must ruin all his state, 
 All their past toil and labour is in vain, ^ 
 
 Vain all the bloody carnage of the plain, — 
 Neither would triumph then, the laurel neither I 
 gain. J 
 
 Therefore through each void space and desert tent, 
 By different moves his various course he bent : 
 The Black King watch'd him with observant eye, 
 Follow'd him close, but left him room to fly. 
 Then when he saw him take the farthest line,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. i 7 g 
 
 He sent the Queen his motions to confine, 
 And guard the second rank, that he could go 
 No farther now than to that distant row. 
 The sable monarch then with cheerful mien 
 Approach'd, but always with one space between. 
 But as the King stood o'er against him there, 
 Helpless, forlorn, and sunk in his despair, 
 The martial Queen her lucky moment knew, 
 Seized on the farthest seat with fatal view, 
 Nor left th' unhappy King a place to flee unto. 
 At length in vengeance her keen sword she draws, 
 Slew him, and ended thus the bloody cause : 
 And all the gods around approv'd it with 
 applause. 
 
 The victor could not from his insults keep, 
 But laugh'd and sneer'd to see Apollo weep. 
 Jove call'd him near, and gave him in his hand 
 The powerful, happy, and mysterious wand 
 By which the Shades are call'd to purer day, 
 When penal fire has purged their sins away ; 
 By which the guilty are condemn'd to dwell 
 In the dark mansions of the deepest hell ; 
 By which he gives us sleep, or sleep denies, 
 And closes at the last the dying eyes. 
 Soon after this, the heavenly victor brought 
 The game on earth, and first th' Italians taught. 
 
 For (as they say) fair Scacchis he espied 
 Feeding her cygnets in the silver tide 
 (Scacchis, the loveliest Seriad of the place), 
 And as she stray'd, took her to his embrace. 
 Then, to reward her for her virtue lost, 
 Gave her the men and chcquer'd board, emboss'd 
 With gold and silver curiously inlay'd ;
 
 i So POEMS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And taught her how the game was to be play'J. 
 Ev'n now 'tis honour'd with her happy name ; 
 And Rome and all the world admire the game. 
 All which the Seriads told me heretofore, 
 When my boy-notes amus'd the Serian shore.
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN 
 A COMEDY.
 
 [The Good-Natur'd Man was produced on Friday, the 
 29th January, 1768. It was played for ten nights in suc- 
 cession, the fifth representation being "commanded by Their 
 Majesties." On the 5th February it was published in octavo 
 liyW. Griffin, of Catherine-Street, Strand, with the following 
 title: — The Good Natur'd Ma/i: A Comedy. As Performed 
 at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden. By Mr. Gold- 
 smith. The price was one shilling and sixpence. The pre- 
 sent reprint is from the fifth edition which appeared in the 
 same year as the first.]
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HEN I undertook to write a comedy, I 
 confess I was strongly prepossessed in 
 favour of the poets of the last age, and 
 strove to imitate them. The term, 
 genteel comedy, was then unknown amongst us, 
 and little more was desired by an audience, than 
 nature and humour, in whatever walks of life they 
 were most conspicuous. The author of the fol- 
 lowing scenes never imagined that more would be 
 expected of him, and therefore to delineate cha- 
 racter has been his principal aim. Those who 
 know anything of composition, are sensible, that 
 in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into 
 the recesses of the mean ; I was even tempted to 
 look for it in the master of a spunging-house : but 
 in deference to the public taste, grown of late, 
 perhaps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs 
 was retrenched in the representation. 1 In defe- 
 rence also to the judgment of a few friends, who 
 think in a particular way, the scene is here restored. 
 
 [1 Vide Act iii, pp. 47-55-]
 
 iS 4 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The author submits it to the reader in his closet ; 
 and hopes that too much refinement will not banish 
 humour and character from ours, as it has already 
 done from the French theatre. Indeed the French 
 comedy is now become so very elevated and senti- 
 mental, that it has not only banished humour and 
 Moliire from the stage, but it has banished all 
 spectators too. 
 
 Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to 
 the public for the favourable reception which the 
 " Good-Natur'd Man" has met with: and to 
 Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. 1 
 It may not also be improper to assure any, who 
 shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or 
 supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport 
 to his protection. 
 
 f 1 This was the gratitudeof success. Colman had not been 
 particularly kind to The Good-Natur'd Man.]
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON: 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY. 
 
 REST by the load of life, the weary mind 
 Surveys the general toil of human kind ; 
 With cool submission joins the labouring 
 train, 
 
 And social sorrow loses half its pain : 
 Our anxious Bard, 1 without complaint, may share 
 This bustling season's epidemic care, 
 Like Caesar's pilot, dignified by fate, 
 Tost in one common storm with all the great ; 
 Distrest alike, the statesman and the wit, 
 When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit. 
 The busy candidates for power and fame, 
 Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same ; 
 Disabled both to combat, or to fly, 
 
 t 1 This Prologue, as spoken, and as published in the Pullic 
 Advertiser for February 3, 1768, differs somewhat from the 
 version here printed. In particular " Our anxious Bard " 
 was originally " Our little Bard " — an epithet which could 
 scarcely have gratified the author of the Play.]
 
 i86 PLAY'S OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. 
 Uncheck'd on both, loud rabbles vent their rage, 
 As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 
 Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, 
 For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 
 Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
 Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss. 
 This day the powder'd curls and golden coat, 
 Says swelling Crispin, begg'd a cobbler's vote. 
 This night, our wit, the pert apprentice cries, 
 Lies at my feet, I hiss him, and he dies. 
 The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe ; 
 The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
 Yet judg'd by those, whose voices ne'er were sold, 
 He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
 But, confident of praise, if praise be due, 
 Trusts without fear, to merit, and to you.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON/E. 1 
 
 
 
 MEN. 
 
 
 Mr. Honeywood, 
 
 
 Mr. Powell. 
 
 Croaker, 
 
 
 
 Mr. Shuter. 
 
 Lofty, 
 
 
 
 Mr. Woodward. 
 
 Sir William 
 
 Hone) 
 
 •wood, 
 
 Mr. Clarke. 
 
 Leontine, 
 
 
 
 Mr. Bensley. 
 
 Jarvis, 
 
 
 
 Mr. Dunstall. 
 
 Butler, 
 
 
 
 Mr. Cushing. 
 
 Bailiff, 
 
 
 
 Mr. R. Smith. 
 
 Dubardieu, 
 
 
 
 Mr. Holtom. 
 
 Postboy, 
 
 
 
 Mr. Quick. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Miss Richland, Mrs. Bulklcy. 
 
 Olivia, Mrs. Mattocks. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker, Mrs. Pitt. 
 
 Garnet, Mrs. Green. 
 
 Landlady, Mrs. White. 
 
 Scene.— LONDON. 
 
 [t The cast given is that of the piece as first acted.]
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 1 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 Scene, An Apartment in Young Honeywood's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Sir William Honeywood, Jarvis. 
 
 Sir William. 
 • OOD Jarvis, make no apologies for this 
 honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, 
 is the best excuse for every freedom. 
 Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and 
 being very angry too, when I hear you talk of dis- 
 inheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman 
 as your nephew, my master. All the world loves 
 him. 
 
 Sir Will. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; 
 that is his fault. 
 
 Ja>~vis. I'm sure there is no part of it more dear 
 to him than you are, though he has not seen you 
 since he was a child. 
 
 \} A personage known as " the good-natured man " is de- 
 scribed at p. 85 of Goldsmith's Life of Richard Nash, Esq., 
 1762, and may have suggested this title.]
 
 icp PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Sir Will. What signifies his affection to me, or 
 how can I be proud of a place in a heart where 
 every sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance ? 
 
 Jarvis. I grant you that he's rather too good- 
 natured ; that he's too much every man's man ; 
 that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the 
 next with another ; but whose instructions may he 
 thank for all this ? 
 
 Sir Will. Not mine, sure ? My letters to him 
 during my employment in Italy, taught him only 
 that philosophy which might prevent, not defend 
 his errors. 
 
 Jarvis. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, 
 I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all ; 
 it has only served to spoil him. This same phi- 
 losophy is a good horse in the stable, but an 
 arrant jade on a journey. For my own part, 
 whenever I hear him mention the name on't, I'm 
 always sure he's going to play the fool. 
 
 Sir Will. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
 philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good 
 nature arises rather from his fears of offending the 
 importunate, than his desire of making the deserv- 
 ing happy. 
 
 Jarvis. What it rises from, I don't know. But, 
 to be sure, everybody has it, that asks it. 
 
 Sir Will. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have 
 been now for some time a concealed spectator of 
 his follies, and find them as boundless as his dis- 
 sipation. 
 
 Jarvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name 
 or other for them all. He calls his extravagance, 
 generosity ; and his trusting everybody, universal
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAX. , gi 
 
 benevolence. It was but last week he went se- 
 curity for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and 
 that he called an act of exalted mu — mu — munifi- 
 cence ; ay, that was the name he gave it. 
 
 Sir Will. And upon that I proceed, as my last 
 effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim him. 
 That very fellow has just absconded, and I have 
 taken up the security. Now, my intention is to 
 involve him in fictitious distress, before he has 
 plunged himself into real calamity. To arrest him 
 for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and 
 then let him see which of his friends will come to 
 his relief. 
 
 Janns. Well, if I could but any way see him 
 thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be 
 music to me ; yet, faith, I believe it impossible. I 
 have tried to fret him myself every morning these 
 three years ; but, instead of being angry, he sits as 
 calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hair- 
 dresser. 
 
 Sir Will. We must try him once more, how- 
 ever, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme into 
 execution ; and I don't despair of succeeding, as, 
 by your means, I can have frequent opportunities 
 of being about him, without being known. What 
 a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good-will to 
 others should produce so much neglect of himself, 
 as to require correction. Yet, we must touch his 
 weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some 
 faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we can 
 scarce weed out the vice without eradicating the 
 virtue. [Exit. 
 
 Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honey-
 
 ig?- PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 wood. It is not without reason that the world 
 allows thee to be the best of men. But here 
 comes his hopeful nephew ; the strange good- 
 natur'd, foolish, open-hearted — And yet, all his 
 faults were such that one loves him still the better 
 for them. 
 
 Enter HONEYWOOD. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
 friends this morning ? 
 
 Jarvis. You have no friends. 
 
 Honeyw. Well ; from my acquaintance then ? 
 
 Jarvis. (Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual 
 cards of compliment, that's all. This bill from 
 your tailor ; this from your mercer ; and this from 
 the little broker in Crooked-lane. 1 He says he 
 has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the 
 money you borrowed. 
 
 Honeyw. That I don't know ; but I'm sure we 
 were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to 
 lend it. 
 
 Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 
 
 Honeyiv. Then he has lost a very good thing. 
 
 Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were send- 
 ing to the poor gentleman and his children in the 
 Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth, for a 
 while at least. 
 
 Honeyw. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their 
 mouths in the mean time ? Must I be cruel be- 
 cause he happens to be importunate ; and, to 
 relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable 
 distress ? 
 
 Tl Perhaps, but not necessarily, Crooked-lane, Cannon- 
 street, City.]
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 193 
 
 Jarvis. 'Sdeath ! Sir, the question now is how 
 to relieve yourself. Yourself — Haven't I reason to 
 be out of my senses, when I see things going on 
 at sixes and sevens ? 
 
 Honeyw. Whatever reason you may have for 
 being out of your senses, I hope you'll allow that 
 I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in 
 mine. 
 
 Jarvis. You're the only man alive in your 
 present situation that could do so— Everything 
 upon the waste. There's Miss Richland and her 
 fine fortune gone already, and upon the point of 
 being given to your rival. 
 
 Honeyw. I'm no man's rival. 
 
 Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disin- 
 herit you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and 
 nothing but pressing creditors, false friends, and a 
 pack of drunken servants that your kindness has 
 made unfit for any other family. 
 
 Honeyw. Then they have the more occasion for 
 being in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. Soli ! What will you have done with 
 him that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry ? 
 In the fact ; I caught him in the fact. 
 
 Honeyw. In the fact ! If so, I really think that 
 we should pay him his wages, and turn him off. 
 
 Jarvis. He shall be turn'd off at Tyburn, the 
 clog ; we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the 
 rest of the family. 
 
 Honeyw. No, Jarvis : it's enough that we have lost 
 what he has stolen, let us not add to it the loss of 
 a fellow-creature ! 
 
 Jarz'is. Very fine ; well, here was the footman 
 n
 
 194 PLAYS Of GOLDSMITH. 
 
 just now, to complain of the butler ; he says he 
 does most work, and ought to have most wages. 
 
 Honeynv. That's but just ; though perhaps, here 
 comes the butler to complain of the footman. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the 
 scullion to the privy-counsellor. If they have a 
 bad master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if 
 they have a good master, they keep quarrelling 
 with one another. 
 
 Enter Butler, drunk. 
 
 Butler. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with 
 Jonathan ; you must part with him, or part with 
 me, that's the ex-ex-exposition of the matter, sir. 
 
 Honey w. Full and explicit enough. But what's 
 his fault, good Philip? 
 
 Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I 
 shall have my morals corrupted, by keeping such 
 company. 
 
 Honeyw. Ha ! Ila ! He has such a diverting 
 way — 
 
 Jarvis. O quite amusing ! 
 
 Butler. I find my wines a-going, sir ; and 
 liquors don't go without mouths, sir ; I hate a 
 drunkard, sir ! 
 
 Honeynv. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon 
 that another time, so go to bed now. 
 
 Jarvis. To bed ! Let him go to the devil ! 
 
 Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and 
 begging your pardon master Jarvis, I'll not go to 
 bed, nor to the devil neither. I have enough to do 
 to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. 
 Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you.
 
 THE GOOD-NAT UR'D MAN. IQ5 
 
 Honeyw. Why didn't you show him up, block- 
 head? 
 
 Butler. Show him up, sir? With all my heart, 
 sir. Up or down, all's one to me. [Exit. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family 
 in this house from morning till night. He comes 
 on the old affair, I suppose. The match between 
 his son, that's just returned from Paris, and Miss 
 Richland, the young lady he's guardian to. 
 
 Honeyw. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing 
 my friendship for the young lady, has got it into 
 his head that I can persuade her to what I please. 
 Jarvis. Ah ! If you loved yourself but half as 
 well as she loves you, we should soon see a mar- 
 riage that would set all things to rights again. 
 
 Honeyw. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. 
 No, no ; her intimacy with me never amounted to 
 more than friendship — mere friendship. That she 
 is the most lovely woman that ever warmed the 
 human heart with desire, I own. But never let me 
 harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by a 
 connection with one so unworthy her merits as I 
 am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her, 
 even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her 
 happiness, though it destroys my own. 
 Jarvis. Was ever the like ! I want patience. 
 
 Honeyw. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain 
 Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could 
 succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker his 
 wife ; who, though both very fine in their way, are 
 yet a little opposite in their dispositions, you know. 
 Jarvis. Opposite enough, Heaven knows ; the 
 very reverse of each other ; she all laugh and no
 
 196 PLATS OF GOLDS.TTITH. 
 
 joke ; he always complaining, and never sorrowful ; 
 a fretful poor soul that has a new distress for every 
 hour in the four-and-twenty — 
 
 Honeyw. Hush, hush, he's coming up, he'll 
 hear you. 
 
 Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing bell — 
 
 Honeyw. Well, well, go, do. 
 
 Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; 
 a coffin and cross bones ; a bundle of rue ; a sprig 
 of deadly night shade ; a — {Honeywood stopping his 
 mouth at last, pushes him off.) [Exit Jarvis. 
 
 Honeyw. I must own my old monitor is not 
 entirely wrong. There is something in my friend 
 Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me. 
 His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his 
 appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than 
 an undertaker's shop. — Mr. Croaker, this is such a 
 satisfaction — 
 
 Enter Croaker. 1 
 
 Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honey- 
 wood, and many of them. How is this ! You look 
 most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope 
 this weather does not affect your spirits. To be 
 sure, if this weather continues — I say nothing — 
 But God send we be all better this day three 
 months. 
 
 Honeyw. I heartily concur in the wish, though 
 I own not in your apprehensions. 
 
 Croaker. May be not ! Indeed what signifies 
 what weather we have in a country going to ruin 
 
 [! The character of Croaker is said to have bien based on 
 Johnson's "Suspirius," Rambler, No. 59-1
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. i 97 
 
 like ours ? Taxes rising and trade falling. Money 
 flying out of the kingdom and Jesuits swarming 
 into it. I know at this time no less than a hun- 
 dred and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing- 
 cross and Temple-bar. 
 
 Honeyw. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or 
 me, I should hope. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed what signifies 
 whom they pervert in a country that has scarce any 
 religion to lose ? I'm only afraid for our wives and 
 daughters. 
 
 Honeyw. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, 
 I assure you. 
 
 Croaker. May be not. Indeed what signifies 
 whether they be perverted or no ? The women in 
 my time were good for something. I have seen a 
 lady dressed from top to toe in her own manufac- 
 tures formerly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing 
 of their own manufactures about them, except their 
 faces. 
 
 Honeyw. But, however these faults may be 
 practised abroad, you don't find them at home, 
 either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia or Miss Richland. 
 
 Croaker. The best of them will never be 
 canoniz'd for a saint when she's dead. By the bye, 
 my dear friend, I dcn't find this match between 
 Miss Richland and my son much relish'd, either 
 by one side or t'other. 
 
 Honeyw. I thought otherwise. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, Mr. Honeywcod, a little of your 
 fine serious advice to the young lady might go far : 
 I know she has a very exalted opinion of your 
 understanding.
 
 198 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Honeyzv. But would not that be usurping an 
 authority that more properly belongs to yourself? 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of 
 my authority at home. People think, indeed, 
 because they see me come out in a morning thus, 
 with a pleasant face, and to make my friends 
 merry, that all's well within. But I have cares 
 that would break a heart of stone. My wife has 
 so encroach'd upon every one of my privileges, 
 that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in my 
 own house ! 
 
 Honeyw. But a little spirit exerted on your side 
 might perhaps restore your authority. 
 
 Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! 
 I do rouse sometimes. But what then ! Always 
 haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting 
 the better before his wife is tired of losing the 
 victory. 
 
 Honeyw. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, 
 that our chief comforts often produce our greatest 
 anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions 
 is but an inlet to new disquietudes. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very 
 words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a week 
 before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. 
 Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in 
 mind of poor — Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected 
 for you ! and so true a friend ! we lov'd each other 
 for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend 
 him a single farthing ! 
 
 Honeyw. Pray what could induce him to commit 
 so rash an action at last? 
 
 Croaker. I don't know, some people were
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 199 
 
 malicious enough to say it was keeping company 
 with me ; because we used to meet now and then 
 and open our hearts to each other. To be sure I 
 lov'd to hear him talk, and he lov'd to hear me talk ; 
 poor dear Dick. He used to say that Croaker 
 rhymed to joker ; and so we used to laugh — Poor 
 Dick. (Going to ay.) 
 
 Honeyw. His fate affects me. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, 
 where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, 
 dress and undress, get up and lie down ; while 
 reason, that should watch like a nurse by our side, 
 falls as fast asleep as we do. 
 
 Honeyw. To say truth, if we compare that part 
 of life which is to come, by that which we have 
 past, the prospect is hideous. 
 
 Croaker. Life at the greatest and best is but a 
 froward child, that must be humour'd and coax'd 
 a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is 
 over. 1 
 
 Honeyw. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed the 
 vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pursuits. 
 We wept when we came into the world, and every 
 day tells us why. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect 
 satisfaction to be miserable with you. My son 
 Leontine shan't lose the benefit of such fine con- 
 versation. I'll just step home for him. I am 
 willing to shew him so much seriousness in one 
 
 [1 An unacknowledged quotation from Sir William 
 Temple's essay on Poetry {Works, 1720, i, 249.)- Goldsmith 
 had already used it in the Enquiry into the Present State 
 0/ Polite Learning, 1759, p. 196.'
 
 2oo FLATS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 scarce older than himself — And what if I bring my 
 last letter to the Gazetteer on the increase and 
 progress of earthquakes? It will amuse us, I 
 promise you. I there prove how the late earth- 
 quake is coming round to pay us another visit from 
 London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary 
 Islands, from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from 
 Palmyra to Constantinople, and so from Constan- 
 tinople back to London again. [Exit, 
 lloneyw. Poor Croaker ! His situation deserves 
 the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits 
 these three days. Sure, to live upon such terms is 
 worse than death itself. And yet, when I consider 
 my own situation, a broken fortune, a hopeless 
 passion, friends in distress ; the wish but not the 
 power to serve them [pausing and sighing?) 
 
 Enter Butler. 
 Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. 
 Croaker and Miss Richland ; shall I show them 
 up? But they're showing up themselves. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Mrs. CROAKER and Miss RlCHLAND. 
 
 Miss Rich. You're always in such spirits. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear 
 Honeywood, from the auction. There was the old 
 deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against 
 herself. And then so curious in antiques! Herself 
 the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole 
 collection ! 
 
 Honeyiv. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness 
 from friendship makes me unfit to share in this 
 good humour : I know you'll pardon me.
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 201 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. I vow he seems as melancholy 
 as if he had taken a dose of my husband this 
 morning. Well, if Richland here can pardon you, 
 I must. 
 
 Miss Rich. You would seem to insinuate, madam, 
 that I have particular reasons for being dispos'd to 
 refuse it. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, 
 don't be so ready to wish an explanation. 
 
 Miss Rich. I own I should be sorry Mr. Honey- 
 wood's long friendship and mine should be mis- 
 understood. 
 
 Honeyw. There's no answering for others, 
 madam. But I hope you'll never find me pre- 
 suming to offer more than the most delicate friend- 
 ship may readily allow. 
 
 Miss Rich. And I shall be prouder of such a 
 tribute from you than the most passionate profes- 
 sions from others. 
 
 Honeyw. My own sentiments, madam : friend- 
 ship is a disinterested commerce between equals ; 
 love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and 
 slaves. 
 
 Miss Rich. And, without a compliment, I know 
 none more disinterested or more capable of friend- 
 ship than Mr. Honey wood. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And indeed I know nobody that 
 has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss 
 Fruzz, Miss Oddbody and Miss Winterbottom, 
 praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy 
 Bundle, she's his professed admirer. 
 
 Miss Rich. Indeed! an admirer! I did not 
 know, sir, you were such a favourite there. But
 
 202 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 is she seriously so handsome ? Is she the mighty 
 thing talk'd of? 
 
 Hoiieyw. The town, madam, seldom begins to 
 praise a lady's beauty, till she's beginning to lose 
 it ! {Smiling.) 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But she's resolved never to lose 
 it, it seems. For as her natural face decays, her 
 skill improves in making the artificial one. Well, 
 nothing diverts me more than one of those fine old 
 dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age, by 
 everywhere exposing her person ; sticking herself 
 up in the front of a side-box j 1 trailing through a 
 minuet at Almack's ; and then, in the public 
 gardens ; looking for all the world like one of the 
 painted ruins of the place. 2 
 
 Honeyw. Every age has its admirers, ladies. 
 While you, perhaps, are trading among the 
 warmer climates of youth, there ought to be 
 some to carry on a useful commerce in the 
 frozen latitudes beyond fifty. 
 
 Miss Rich. But then the mortifications they 
 must suffer before they can be fitted out for traffic. 
 I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at 
 her hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face. 
 
 Honeyw. And yet I'll engage has carried that 
 face at last to a very good market. This good- 
 natur'd town, madam, has husbands, like spec- 
 tacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore. 
 
 [ l In Pope's time the gentlemen sat in the side-hoxes. 
 But by this date things must have altered, as Johnson and 
 his friends occupied a front-box on the first night of She 
 Stoops to Conquer.} 
 
 P E.g. the Ruins of Palmyra and other painted scenes ia 
 the walks at old Vauxhall Gardens. J
 
 THE GOOD-NAT UR'D MAN. 2QJ 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Well, you're a dear good-natur'd 
 creature. But you know you're engaged with us 
 this morning upon a strolling party. I want to 
 shew Olivia the town, and the tilings ; I believe I 
 shall have business for you for the whole day. 
 
 Honeyw. I am sorry, madam, I have an appoint- 
 ment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to 
 put off. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What ! with my husband ! Then 
 I'm resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest 
 you must. You know I never laugh so much as 
 with you. 
 
 Honeyw. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear 
 you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you 
 find jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise you. 
 We'll wait for the chariot in the next room. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Leontine and Olivia. 
 
 Leont. There they go, thoughtless and happy. 
 My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you 
 capable of sharing in their amusements, and as 
 cheerful as they are. 
 
 Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be 
 cheerful, when I have so many terrors to oppress 
 me? The fear of being detected by this family, 
 and the apprehensions of a censuring world, when 
 I must be detected — 
 
 Leont. The world ! my love, what can it say? 
 At worst it can only say that, being compelled by 
 a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you dis- 
 liked, you formed a resolution of flying with the man 
 of your choice; that you confided in his honour, and
 
 2o 4 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 took refuge in my father's house ; the only one 
 where your's could remain without censure. 
 
 Olivia. But consider, Leontine, your disobedi- 
 ence and my indiscretion : your being sent to 
 France to bring home a sister ; and, instead of a 
 sister, bringing home — 
 
 Lcont. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One 
 that I am convinc'd will be equally dear to the 
 rest of the family, when she comes to be known. 
 
 Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 
 
 Lcont. Impossible, till we ourselves think pro- 
 per to make the discovery. My sister, you know, 
 has been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a 
 child, and you find every creature in the family 
 takes you for her. 
 
 Olivia. But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt 
 write ? 
 
 Leont. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my 
 sister's letters are directed to me. 
 
 Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, 
 for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, 
 create a suspicion ? 
 
 Leont. There, (here's my master-stroke. I have 
 resolved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I 
 have consented to go with my father, to make her 
 an offer of my heart and fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Your heart and fortune ! 
 
 Leont. Don't be alarm'd, my dearest. Can 
 Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my 
 love, as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness 
 from any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the 
 force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my 
 passion, leave any room to suspect me. I only
 
 THE GOOD-XATUR'F) MAX. 2 o 5 
 
 offer Miss Richland a heart I am convinced she will 
 refuse ; as I am confidant that, without knowing it, 
 her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! You'll excuse my 
 apprehensions ; but when your merits come to be 
 put in the balance — 
 
 Lcont. You view them with too much partiality. 
 However, by making this offer, I show a seeming 
 compliance with my father's commands ; and 
 perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent 
 to choose for myself. 
 
 Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, 
 I own, I shall envy her even your pretended 
 addresses. I consider every look, eveiy expression 
 of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly, 
 perhaps : I allow it ; but it is natural to suppose, 
 that merit which has made an impression on one's 
 own heart, may be powerful over that of another. 
 
 Lcont. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us 
 make imaginary evils, when you know we have so 
 many real ones to encounter. At worst, you 
 know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my 
 father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip 
 to Scotland; and 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Where have you been, boy? I have 
 been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here, 
 has been saying such comfortable things. Ah! he's 
 an example indeed. Where is he? I left him here. 
 
 Leont. Sir, I believe you may see him, and 
 hear him, too, in the next room : he's preparing 
 to go out with the ladies
 
 206 FLATS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Croaker. Good gracious, can I believe my eyes 
 or my ears ! I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, 
 and stunn'd with the loudness of his laugh. Was 
 there ever such a transformation ! [A laugh be- 
 lt ind the scenes, Croaker mimics it.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 there it goes : a plague take their balderdash ; yet 
 I could expect nothing less, when my precious wife 
 was of the party. On my conscience, I believe 
 she could spread a horse-laugh through the pews 
 of a tabernacle. 
 
 Leont. Since you find so many objections to a 
 wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recom- 
 mending one to me ? 
 
 Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, 
 boy, that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out 
 of the family ; one may find comfort in the money, 
 whatever one does in the wife. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, though, in obedience to your 
 desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible 
 she has no inclination to me. 
 
 Croaker. I'll tell you once for all how it stands. 
 A good part of Miss Richland's large fortune con- 
 sists in a claim upon government, which my good 
 friend Mr. Lofty, assures me the Treasury will allow. 
 One half of this she is to forfeit, by her father's 
 will, in case she refuses to marry you. So, if she 
 rejects you, we seize half her fortune ; if she ac- 
 cepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine girl into 
 the bargain. 
 
 Leant. But, sir, if you will but listen to reason — 
 
 Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons, I 
 tell you I'm fixed, determined, so now produce 
 your reasons. When I'm determined, I always 
 listen to reason, because it can then do no harm.
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 207 
 
 Lcont. You have alleged that a mutual choice 
 was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness. 
 
 Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a 
 mutual choice. She has her choice — to marry 
 you, or lose half her fortune ; and you have your 
 choice — to marry her, or pack out of doors with- 
 out any fortune at all. 
 
 Leont. An only son, sir, might expect more 
 indulgence. 
 
 Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more 
 obedience ; besides, has not your sister here, that 
 never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as 
 you? He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would 
 take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he 
 shan't, for you shall have your share. 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced that 
 I can never be happy in any addition to my fortune, 
 which is taken from his. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no 
 more, but come with me, and we shall see some- 
 thing that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I 
 promise you ; old Ruggins, the curry-comb-maker, 
 lying in state ; l I'm told he makes a very hand- 
 some corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. 
 He was an intimate friend of mine, and these are 
 friendly things we ought to do for each other. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 [ l Lying in state for several days, with a " fitting environ- 
 ment" of wax candles and velvet hangings, was a common 
 practice in the last century, even among merchants and 
 tradesmen. Cf. The Citizen of the World, 1762, i. 39.] 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT.
 
 ioS PLAl'S OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE. — Croaker's House. 
 
 Miss Richland, Garnet. 
 Miss Rich. 
 ■1LIVIA not his sister ? Olivia not Leon- 
 tine's sister? You amaze me ! 
 
 Gar. No more his sister than I am ; 
 I had it all from his own servant ; I 
 can get anything from that quarter. 
 
 Miss Rich. But how ? Tell me again, Garnet. 
 Gar. Why, madam, as I told you before, 
 instead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, 
 who has been there with her annt these ten years, 
 he never went further than Faris ; there he saw 
 and fell in love with this young lady ; by the bye, 
 of a prodigious family. 
 
 Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guar- 
 dian, as his daughter ? 
 
 Gar. Yes, and daughter she will be. If he 
 don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying 
 what a Scotch parson can do. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived me 
 — And so demurely as Olivia carried it, too ! — 
 Would you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my 
 secrets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this 
 from me ? 
 
 Gar. And, upon my word, Madam, I don't
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 2og 
 
 much blame her ; she was loath to trust one with 
 her secrets, that was so very bad at keeping her 
 own. 
 
 Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the 
 young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make 
 me serious proposals. My guardian and he are 
 to be here presently, to open the affair in form. 
 You know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse 
 him. 
 
 Gar. Yet, what can you do? For being, as 
 you are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam — 
 
 Miss Rich. How ! idiot ! what do you mean ? 
 In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke 
 me? 
 
 Gar. That is, madam, in friendship with him ; 
 I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope 
 to be married ; nothing more. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, no more of this ! As to my 
 guardian, and his son, they shall find me prepared 
 to receive them ; I'm resolved to accept their pro- 
 posal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by 
 compliance, and so throw the refusal at last upon 
 them. 
 
 Gar. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole 
 fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought 
 so innocent a face could cover so much cuteness ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my pru- 
 dence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they 
 have taught me against themselves. 
 
 Gar. Then you're likely not long to want em- 
 ployment, for here they come, and in close con- 
 ference 1
 
 «io PLAYS Of GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Croaker, Leontine. 
 
 Leont. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate 
 upon the point of putting the lady so important a 
 question. 
 
 Croaker, Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; 
 you're so plaguy shy, that one would think you had 
 changed sexes. I tell you we must have the half 
 or the whole. Come, let me see with what spirit 
 you begin? Well, why don't you ? Eh! What? 
 Well then — I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my 
 dear, I believe you guess at our business ; an affair 
 which my son here comes to open, that nearly 
 concerns your happiness. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be 
 pleased with anything that comes recommended by 
 you. 
 
 Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer 
 opening ? Why don't you begin, I say ? 
 
 {To Leont.) 
 
 Leont. 'Tis true, madam, my father, madam, has 
 some intentions — hem — of explaining an affair — 
 which — himself — can best explain, madam. 
 
 Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from 
 my son ; it's all a request of his own, madam. 
 And I will permit him to make the best of it. 
 
 Leont. The whole affair is only this, madam ; 
 my father has a proposal to make, which he insists 
 none but himself shall deliver. 
 
 Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will 
 never be brought on. (Aside.) — In short, madam, 
 you see before you one that loves you ; one whose 
 whole happiness is all in you. 
 
 Miss Rich, I never had any doubts of your
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 211 
 
 regard, sir, and I hope you can have none of my 
 duty. 
 
 Croaker. That's not the thing, my little sweeting, 
 my love ! No, no, another guess lover than I ; 
 there he stands, madam ; his very looks declare 
 the force of his passion ! — Call up a look, you dog 
 — But then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping, 
 speaking soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes 
 melancholy, and sometimes absent — 
 
 Miss Rich. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such 
 a declaration would have come most properly from 
 himself. 
 
 Croaker. Himself! madam ! he would die before 
 he could make such a confession ; and if he had 
 not a channel for his passion through me, it would 
 ere now have drowned his understanding. 
 
 Miss Rich. I must grant, sir, there are attrac- 
 tions in modest diffidence, above the force of 
 words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence 
 of sincerity. 
 
 Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any 
 other language ; silence is become his mother 
 tongue. 
 
 Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, sir, it 
 speaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet, I 
 shall be thought too forward in making such a 
 confession ; shan't I, Mr. Leontine ? 
 
 Leont. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. 
 But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may dis- 
 gust her. I'll try. (Aside.) — Don't imagine from 
 my silence, madam, that I want a due sense of the 
 
 f 1 Another guess = of another fashion, guise.]
 
 2i2 r LAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 honour and happiness intended me. My father, 
 madam, tells me your humble servant is not totally 
 indifferent to you. He admires you ; I adore you ; 
 and when we come together, upon my soul I 
 believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St. 
 James's ! 
 
 Miss Rich. If I could flatter myself you thought 
 as you speak, sir 
 
 Leont. Doubt my sincerity, madam? By your 
 dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire 
 glory ; ask cowards if they covet safety 
 
 Croaker, Well, well, no more questions about it. 
 
 Leont. Ask the sick if they long for health, ask 
 misers if they love money, ask 
 
 Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ! 
 What's come over the boy? "What signifies asking, 
 when there's not a soul to give you an answer? If 
 you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's con- 
 sent to make you happy. 
 
 Miss Rich. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon 
 ardour almost compels me, forces me, to comply. 
 And yet I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest gained 
 with too much ease ; won't you, Mr. Leontine ? 
 
 Leant. Confusion ! {Aside.) — O, by no means, 
 madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you 
 talked of force. There is nothing I would avoid 
 so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. 
 No, madam, I will still be generous, and leave you 
 at liberty to refuse. 
 
 Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at 
 liberty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. 
 Silence gives consent. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider,
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN.- 2I3 
 
 sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 Croaker. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't 
 you know, blockhead, that girls have always a 
 roundabout way of saying yes before company? 
 So get you both gone together into the next room, 
 and hang him that interrupts the tender explana- 
 tion. Get you gone, I say ; I'll not hear a word. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist 
 
 Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave 
 to insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! 
 But I don't wonder, the boy takes entirely after 
 his mother ! [Exeunt Miss Rich, and Leont. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you some- 
 thing, my dear, that I believe will make you smile. 
 
 Croaker. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. A letter; and, as I knew the 
 hand, I ventured to open it ! 
 
 Croaker. And how can you expect your breaking 
 open my letters should give me pleasure ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Poo, it's from your sister at Lyons, 
 and contains good news : read it. 
 
 Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here ! 
 That sister of mine has some good qualities, but I 
 could never teach her to fold a letter. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what 
 it contains. 
 
 Croaker, [reading.) 
 
 Dear Nick, 
 
 An English gentleman, of large fortune, has for 
 some time madeprivaie, though honourable proposals
 
 2i4 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 to your daughter Olivia. They love each other 
 tenderly, and I find she has consented, without 
 letting any of the family know, to crown his 
 addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, 
 your own good sense, his large fortune, and family 
 considerations, will induce you to forgive her. 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Rachel Croaker. 
 
 My daughter, Olivia, privately contracted to a 
 man of large fortune ! This is good news indeed ! 
 My heart never foretold me of this. And yet, how 
 slily the little baggage has carried it since she came 
 home. Not a word on't to the old ones for the 
 world. Yet, I thought I saw something she 
 wanted to conceal. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed 
 their amour, they shan't conceal their wedding ; 
 that shall be public, I'm resolved. 
 
 Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the 
 most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never 
 get this woman to think of the more serious part 
 of the nuptial engagement. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What, would you have me think 
 of their funeral? But come, tell me, my dear, 
 don't you owe more to me than you care to con- 
 fess? Would you have ever been known to Mr. 
 Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim 
 at the Treasury, but for me? Who was it first 
 made him an acquaintance at Lacly Shabbaroon's 
 rout? Who got him to promise us his interest? 
 Is not he a backstairs favourite, one that can do 
 what he pleases with those that do what they
 
 THE GOOD-XATUR'D MAN. 215 
 
 please? Isn't he an acquaintance that all your 
 groaning and lamentations could never have got us ? 
 
 Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant 
 you. And yet, what amazes me is, that while 
 he is giving away places to all the world, he 
 can't get one for himself. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. That perhaps may be owing to 
 his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied ! 
 
 Enter French Servant. 
 
 Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. 
 He vil be vait upon your honours instammant. 
 He be only giving four five instruction, read two 
 tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur ! He 
 vil be vid you in one tree minutes. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. You see now, my dear. What 
 an extensive department ! Well, friend, let your 
 master know, that we are extremely honoured by 
 this honour. Was there anything ever in a higher 
 style of breeding ! All messages among the great 
 are now done by express. 
 
 Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things 
 with more solemnity, or claims more respect than 
 he. But he's in the right on't. In our bad world, 
 respect is given, where respect is claimed. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear; 
 you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. 
 Let us now think of receiving him with proper 
 respect (a loud rapping at the door) and there he is, 
 by the thundering rap. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is ; as close upon 
 the heels of his own express, as an endorsement 
 upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to
 
 2 y6 plays of goldsmith. 
 
 receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia 
 for intending to steal a marriage without mine or 
 her aunt's consent. I must seem to be angry, or 
 she, too, may begin to despise my authority. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lofty, 1 speaking to his servant. 
 Lofty. And if the Venetian Ambassador, or that 
 teasing creature the Marquis, should call, I'm 
 not at home. Dam'me, I'll be pack-horse to 
 none of them ! My dear madam, I have just 
 snatched a moment — And if the expresses to his 
 Grace be ready, let them be sent off; they're of 
 importance. Madam, I ask a thousand pardons ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour 
 
 Lofty. And, Dubardieu ! If the person calls 
 about the commission, let him know that it is 
 made out. As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale re- 
 quest, it can keep cold : you understand me. 
 Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour 
 
 Lofty. And, Dubardieu ! If the man comes 
 from the Cornish borough, you must do him ; 
 you must do him, I say ! Madam, I ask ten 
 thousand pardons ! And if the Russian — Ambas- 
 sador calls : but he will scarce call to-day, I 
 believe. And now, madam, I have just got time 
 to express my happiness in having the honour of 
 being permitted to profess myself your most obe- 
 dient humble servant ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honour 
 
 [! Lofty, in some respects, is a variation upon "Beau 
 Tibbs' in the Citizen of the World,]
 
 THE COOD-NATUR'D MAN. 217 
 
 are all mine; and yet, I'm only robbing the 
 public while I detain you. 
 
 Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair 
 are to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so 
 charmingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us 
 poor creatures in affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; 
 solicited for places here, teased for pensions there, 
 and courted everywhere. I know you pity me. 
 Yes, I see you do ! 
 
 Airs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir. Toils of empires 
 pleasures are, as Waller says. 
 
 Lofty. Waller, Waller ; is he of the House ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, 
 sir. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business 
 despise the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we 
 have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty 
 thing enough for our wives and daughters ; but not 
 for us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing 
 of books. I say, madam, I know nothing of books ; 
 and yet, I believe, upon a land carriage fishery, a 
 stamp act, or a jag-hire, lean talk my two hours 
 without feeling the want of them ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr. 
 Lofty's eminence in every capacity ! 
 
 Lofty. I vow to Gad, madam, you make me 
 blush. I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the 
 world ; a mere obscure gentleman ! To be sure, 
 indeed, one or two of the present ministers are 
 pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I 
 know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their 
 little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder 
 what they see in me to treat me so ! Measure?,
 
 2I 8 PLAYs Of Goldsmith. 
 
 not men, 1 have always been my mark ; and I vow, 
 by all that's honourable, my resentment has never 
 done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm — 
 That is, as mere men. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what 
 modesty ! 
 
 Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam ! 
 There, I own, I'm accessible to praise : modesty is 
 my foible : it was so the Duke of Brentford used to 
 say of me. I love Jack Lofty, he used to say : no 
 man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite a man 
 of information ; and when he speaks upon his legs, 
 by the lord, he's prodigious, he scouts them ; and 
 yet all men have their faults ; too much modesty is 
 his, says his Grace. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't 
 want assurance when you come to solicit for your 
 friends. 
 
 Lofty. O, there indeed I'm in bronze. A-propos, 
 I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case 
 to a certain personage ; we must name no names. 
 When I ask, I am not to be put off, madam ! No, 
 no, I take my friend by the button. A fine girl, 
 sir ; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. 
 Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr. 
 Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business must 
 be done, sir. That's my way, madam ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Bless me ! you said all this to 
 the Secretary of State, did you ? 
 
 [! Goldsmith is generally credited with this sentiment ; 
 but from a sentence in linrke's Thoughts on the Present 
 Discontents it would seem to have been a cant political 
 phrase.]
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 219 
 
 Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I ? Well, 
 curse it, since you have found me out, I will not 
 deny it. It was to the Secretary ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain- 
 head at once, not applying to the understrappers, 
 as Mr. Honeywood would have had us. 
 
 Lofty. Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was, indeed, 
 a fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what 
 has just happened to him? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Poor dear man ! no accident, I 
 hope ! 
 
 Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors 
 have taken him into custody. A prisoner in his 
 own house ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house ! 
 How ! At this very time ! I'm quite unhappy for 
 him. 
 
 Lofty. Why, so am I ! The man, to be sure, 
 was immensely good-natur'd. But then, I could 
 never find that he had anything in him. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was 
 excessive harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a 
 little dull. For my part, I always concealed my 
 opinion. 
 
 Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man 
 was dull, dull as the last new comedy ! l A poor 
 impracticable creature ! I tried once or twice to 
 know if he was fit for business ; but he had scarce 
 talents to be groom-porter to an orange barrow ! 
 
 \y The " last new comedy " was the False Delicacy of 
 Goldsmith's rival, Hugh Kelly, just produced at Drury 
 Lane. But Goldsmith could scarcely have intended this 
 "palpable hit."]
 
 22o PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Rich- 
 land think of him ! For, I believe, with all his 
 faults, she loves him. 
 
 Lofty. Loves him ! Does she? You should 
 cure her of that, by all means. Let me see, what 
 if she were sent to him this instant, in his present 
 doleful situation? My life for it, that works her 
 cure ! Distress is a perfect antidote to love. 
 Suppose we join her in the next room ? Miss 
 Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and 
 must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, 
 madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland ; and, 
 rather than she should be thrown away, I should 
 think it no indignity to marry her myself ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Oltvia and Leontine. 
 
 Leont. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every 
 reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did 
 everything in my power to deserve it. Her in- 
 delicacy surprises me ! 
 
 Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so in- 
 delicate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I 
 fear, I shall be the most guilty thing alive ! 
 
 Leont. But you mistake, my dear. The same 
 attention I used to advance my merit with you, 
 I practised to lessen it with her. What more 
 could I do ? 
 
 Olivia. Let us now rather consider what's to be 
 done. We have both dissembled too long — I have 
 always been asham'd — I am now quite weary of it. 
 Surj, I could never have undergone so much 
 for any other but you.
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 221 
 
 Leont. And you shall find my gratitude equal to 
 your kindest compliance. Though our friends 
 should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw 
 upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of 
 humble happiness, when it is now in our power ? 
 I may be the favourite of your father, it is true ; 
 but can it ever be thought, that his present kind- 
 ness to a supposed child, will continue to a known 
 deceiver ? 
 
 Leont. I have many reasons to believe it will. 
 As his attachments are but few, they are lasting. 
 His own marriage was a private one, as ours may 
 be. Besides, I have sounded him already at a dis- 
 tance, and find all his answers exactly to our wish. 
 Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from 
 him, 1 am induced to think he knows of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be an happi- 
 ness too great to be expected. 
 
 Leont. However it be, I'm certain you have 
 power over him ; and am persuaded, if you informed 
 him of our situation, that he would be disposed to 
 pardon it. 
 
 Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leont ine, 
 from your last scheme with Miss Richland, which 
 you find has succeeded most wretchedly. 
 
 Leont. And that's the best reason for trying 
 another. 
 
 Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 
 
 Leont. As we could wish, he comes this way. 
 Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire 
 within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either 
 to share your danger, or confirm yourvictory. [Exit.
 
 222 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croahet. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not 
 too easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up 
 the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to 
 impress her with an idea of my authority. 
 
 Olivia. How I tremble to approach him ! — 
 Might I presume, sir — if I interrupt you — 
 
 Croaker. No, child, where I have an affection, 
 it is not a little thing can interrupt me. Affection 
 gets over little things. 
 
 Olivia. Sir, you're too kind ! I'm sensible how 
 ill I deserve this partiality. Yet, Heaven knows, 
 there is nothing I would not do to gain it. 
 
 Croaker. And you have but too well succeeded, 
 you little hussy, you ! With those endearing 
 ways of yours, on my conscience, I could be 
 brought to forgive anything, unless it were a very 
 great offence indeed. 
 
 Olivia. But mine is such an offence — when you 
 know my guilt — yes, you shall know it, though I 
 feel the greatest pain in the confession. 
 
 Croaker. Why, then, if it be so very great a 
 pain, you may spare yourself the trouble, for I 
 know every syllable of the matter before you begin. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! Then I'm undone ! 
 
 Croaker. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, 
 without letting me know it, did you ! But I'm 
 not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's 
 to be a marriage in my own family! No, I'm to 
 have no hand in the disposal of my own children ! 
 No, I'm nobody ! I'm to be a mere article of 
 family lumber ; a piece of cracked china to be 
 stuck up in a corner !
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 223 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your 
 authority could induce us to conceal it from you. 
 
 Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; 
 I'm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, 
 just stuck up with a pipe in his mouth till there 
 comes a thaw — it goes to my heart to vex her. 
 
 Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and 
 despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask 
 it. But your severity shall never abate my affec- 
 tion, as my punishment is but justice. 
 
 Croaker. And yet you should not despair neither, 
 Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 
 
 Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir ! 
 Can I ever expect to be forgiven ? But hope has 
 too long deceived me ! 
 
 Croaker. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you 
 now, for I forgive you this very moment. I for- 
 give you all ; and now you are indeed my daughter. 
 
 Olivia. O transport ! This kindness overpowers 
 me ! 
 
 Croaker. I was always against severity to our 
 children. We have been young and giddy our- 
 selves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be 
 old before their time. 
 
 Olivia. What generosity ! But can you forget 
 the many falsehoods, the dissimulation 
 
 Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin, 
 you ; but where's the girl that won't dissemble for 
 a husband ! My wife and I had never been mar- 
 ried, if we had not dissembled a little beforehand ! 
 
 Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put 
 such generosity to a second trial. And as for the 
 partner of my offence and folly, from his native
 
 224 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I 
 can answer for him that ■ 
 
 Enter Leon tine. 
 
 Leont. Permit him thus to answer for himself. 
 {Kneeling.} T»hus, sir, let me speak my gratitude 
 for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even 
 exceeds all your former tenderness : I now can 
 boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life, be 
 gave, compared to this, was but a trifling blessing ! 
 
 Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with 
 that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner? I 
 don't know what we have to do with your gratitude 
 upon this occasion ! 
 
 Leont. How, sir ! is it possible to be silent when 
 so much obliged ? Would you refuse me the pleasure 
 of being grateful? Of adding my thanks to my 
 Olivia's ! Of sharing in the transports that you have 
 thus occasioned ? 
 
 Croaker. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough, 
 without your coming in to make up the party. I 
 don't know what's the matter with the boy all this 
 day ; he has got into such a rhodomontade manner 
 all the morning ! 
 
 Leont. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the 
 benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy? Is the 
 being admitted to your favour so slight an 
 obligation ? Is the happiness of marrying my 
 Olivia so small a blessing ? 
 
 Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! 
 marrying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of 
 his senses. His own sister ! 
 
 Leont. My sister !
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAX. 22$ 
 
 Olivia. Sister ! How have I been mistaken ! 
 (aside.) 
 
 Leont. Some cursed mistake in this I find. 
 (aside. ) 
 
 Croaker. What does the booby mean, or has he 
 any meaning. Eh, what do you mean, you block- 
 head, you ? 
 
 Leont. Mean, sir — why, sir— only when my 
 sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of 
 marrying her, sir ; that is, of giving her away, 
 sir — I have made a point of it. 
 
 Croaker. O, is that all ? Give her away. You 
 have made a point of it. Then you had as good 
 make a point of first giving away yourself, as I'm 
 going to prepare the writings between you and 
 Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is 
 here about nothing ! Why, what's the matter now ? 
 I thought I had made you at least as happy as you 
 could wish. 
 
 Olivia. O ! yes, sir, very happy. 
 
 Croaker. Do you foresee anything, child ? You 
 look as if you did. I think if anything was to be 
 foreseen, I have as sharp a look out as another : 
 and yet I foresee nothing. [Exit. 
 
 Leon-tine, Olivia. 
 Olivia. What can it mean ? 
 Leont. He knows something, and yet for my life, 
 I can't tell what. 
 
 Olivia. It can't be the connection between us, 
 I'm pretty certain. 
 
 Leont. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved 
 to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mor- 
 
 Q
 
 226 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 tification. I'll haste, and prepare for our journey 
 to Scotland this very evening. My friend Honey- 
 wood has promised me his advice and assistance. 
 I'll go to him, and repose our distresses on his 
 friendly bosom : and I know so much of his honest 
 heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasinesses, he 
 will at least share them. {Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
 MM 
 
 ^
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 227 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 Scene. — Young Honeywood 's House. 
 
 Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 OOKY, sir, I have arrested as good men 
 as you in my time : no disparagement 
 of you neither. Men that would go 
 forty guineas on a game of cribbage. 
 I challenge the town to shew a man in more gen- 
 teeler practice than myself ! 
 
 Honeyw. Without all question, Mr. 1 forget 
 
 your name, sir? 
 
 Bailiff. How can you forget what you never 
 knew ? he, he, he ! 
 
 Honeyw. May I beg leave to ask your name? 
 
 Bailiff. Yes, you may. 
 
 Honeyw. Then, pray, sir, what is your name, sir? 
 
 Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you. He, 
 he, he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we say among 
 us that practice the law. 
 
 Honeyw. You may have reason for keeping it a 
 secret, perhaps? 
 
 Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. 
 I'm ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If 
 you can shew cause, as why, upon a special capus, 
 that I should prove my name— But, come, Timothy 
 Twitch is my name. And, now you know my 
 name, what have you to say to that ?
 
 2 z8 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Honeyw. Nothing in the world, good Mr. 
 Twitch, but that I have a favour to ask, that's all. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than 
 granted, as we say among us that practice the law. 
 1 have taken an oath against granting favours. 
 Would you have me perjure myself? 
 
 Honeyw. But my request will come recommended 
 in so strong a manner, as I believe you'll have no 
 scruple (pulling out his purse). The thing is only 
 this : I believe I shall be able to discharge this 
 trifle in two or three days at farthest ; but as I 
 would not have the affair known for the world, I 
 have thoughts of keeping you, and your good 
 friend here, about me, till the debt is discharged ; 
 for which I shall be properly grateful. 1 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! that's another maxum, and alto- 
 gether within my oath. For certain, if an honest 
 man is to get anything by a thing, there's no reason 
 why all things should not be done in civility. 
 
 Honeyw. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
 Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. 
 
 {Gives him money. 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! your honour ; I hope your honour 
 takes nothing amiss as I docs, as I does nothing 
 but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can say 
 I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill 
 usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, 
 I have taken money not to see him for ten weeks 
 together. 
 
 Honeyzv. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 
 
 [1 The elaboration of this expedient was perhaps suggested 
 by an anecdote of Steele, who is said to have put his bailiffs 
 into livery. See Steele, (Liigtisk Worthies), 1SS6, p. 222.]
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 22l) 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love 
 to see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't 
 know, but I think I have a tender heart myself. 
 If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, 
 it would make a— but no matter for that. 
 
 Honeyw. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. 
 The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us 
 of the conscious happiness of having acted with 
 humanity ourselves. 
 
 Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better 
 than gold. I love humanity. People may say 
 that we in our way have no humanity; but I'll 
 show you my humanity this moment. There's my 
 follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four 
 children, a guinea or two would be more to him, 
 than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't 
 shew him any humanity myself, I must beg leave 
 you'll do it for me. 
 
 Honeyw. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a 
 most powerful recommendation. 
 
 [Giving money to the follower. 
 
 Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you 
 know what to do with your money. But, to busi- 
 ness : we are to be with you here as your friends, 
 I suppose. But set in case company comes. — 
 Little Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face, 
 a very good face : but then, he is a little seedy, as 
 we say among us that practice the law. Not well 
 in clothes. Smoke l the pocket holes. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, that shall be remedied without 
 delay. 
 
 f 1 "Smoke"— here =" observe." Now-a-days Mr. Twitch 
 would say " twig."]
 
 2 3 o PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. 
 
 Honeyw. How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. 
 We must improve, my good friend, little Mr. 
 Flanigan's'appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flani- 
 gan have a suit of my clothes — quick — the brown 
 and silver — Do you hear ? 
 
 Servant. That your honour gave away to the 
 begging gentleman that makes verses, because it 
 was as good as new. 
 
 Honeyw. The white and gold, then. 
 
 Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, 
 because it was good for nothing. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, the first that comes to hand, 
 then. The blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan 
 will look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. 
 
 Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will 
 look well in anything. Ah, if your honour knew 
 that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly 
 in love with him. There's not a prettier scout in 
 the four counties after a shy-cock than he. Scents 
 like a hound; sticks like a weazel. He was 
 master of the ceremonies to the black queen of 
 Morocco when I took him to follow me. (Re-enter 
 Flanigan.) Heh, ccod, I think he looks so well, 
 that I don't care if I have a suit from the same 
 place for myself. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. 
 Dear Mr, Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend 
 directions not to speak. As for yourself, I know 
 you will say nothing without being directed. 
 
 Bailiff. Never you fear me, Fll shew the lady
 
 Tllk GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 231 
 
 that I have something to say for myself as well as 
 another. One man has one way of talking, and 
 another man has another, that's all the difference 
 between them. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and her Maid. 
 
 Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this 
 visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for 
 choosing my little library. 
 
 Honeyw. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, as 
 it was I that was obliged by your commands. 
 Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. 
 Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit 
 without ceremony. 
 
 Miss Rich, {aside.) Who can these odd-looking 
 men be ? I fear it is as I was informed. It must 
 be so. 
 
 Bailiff (after a faitse). Pretty weather, very 
 pretty weather for the time of the year, madam. 
 
 Follo'ver. Very good circuit weather in the 
 country. 
 
 Honeyw. You officers are generally favourites 
 among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been 
 upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The 
 fair should, in some measure, recompense the toils 
 of the brave. 
 
 Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every 
 favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, 
 I presume, sir? 
 
 Honeyw. Why, madam, they do — occasionally 
 serve in the Fleet, madam ! A dangerous service ! 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own, it has 
 often surprised me, that, while we have had so
 
 232 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 many instances of bravery there, we have had so 
 few of wit at home to praise it. 
 
 Honeyw. I grant, madam, that our poets have 
 not written as our soldiers have fought ; but they 
 have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst 
 could do no more. 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a 
 fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. 
 
 Honeyw. We should not be so severe against 
 dull writers, madam. It is ten to one, but the 
 dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic 
 who presumes to despise him. 
 
 Follower. Damn the French, the parle-vous, and 
 all that belongs to them ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir ! 
 
 Honeyw. Ha, ha, ha, honest Mr. Flanigan ! A 
 true English officer, madam ; he's not contented 
 with beating the French, but he will scold them 
 too. 
 
 Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not 
 convince me but that severity in criticism is neces- 
 sary. It was our first adopting the severity of 
 French taste, that has brought them in turn to 
 taste us. 
 
 Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they 
 devour us ! Give Monseers but a taste, and I'll 
 be damned, but they come in for a bellyful ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Very extraordinary, this ! 
 
 Follower. But very true. What makes the bread 
 rising : the parle-vous that devour us. What 
 makes the mutton fivepence a pound : the parle- 
 vous that eat it up. What makes the beer three 
 pence half-penny a pot
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. ? 33 
 
 Honeyw. Ah ! the vulgar rogues, all will be out ! 
 Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, ami 
 quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel,madam, 
 between the mental taste, and that of our senses. 
 We are injured as much by French severity in the 
 one, as by French rapacity in the other. That's 
 their meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the 
 parallel, yet, I'll own, that we should sometimes 
 pardon books, as we do our friends, that have 
 now and then agreeable absurdities to recommend 
 them. 
 
 Bailiff. That's all my eye ! The King only can 
 pardon, as the law says ; for set in case 
 
 Honeyw. I'm quite of your opinion, sir ! I see 
 the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, 
 our presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating 
 a power that belongs to another. If all have power 
 to condemn, what writer can be free ? 
 
 Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus 
 can set him free at any time. For set in case 
 
 Hcneyw, I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. 
 If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so 
 careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to 
 be equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. 
 
 Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabbed, you 
 know 
 
 Honeyw. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, 
 you could not improve the last observation. For 
 my own part, I think it conclusive. 
 
 Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap 
 
 Honeyw. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance 
 to be positive. For where is the necessity of ecu-
 
 434 PLAVS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 suring works without genius, which must, shortly 
 sink of themselves : what is it, but aiming our un- 
 necessary blow against a victim already under the 
 hands of justice? 
 
 Bailiff. Justice ! O, by the elevens, if you talk 
 about justice, I think I am at home there ; for, in 
 a course of law 
 
 Honeyw. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
 you'd be at perfectly, and I believe the lady must 
 be sensible of the art with which it is introduced. 
 I suppose you perceive the meaning, madam, of 
 his course of law ? 
 
 Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive 
 only that you answer one gentleman before he 
 has finished, and the other before he has well 
 begun ! 
 
 Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I 
 will make the matter out. This here question is 
 about severity and justice, and pardon, and the like 
 of they. Now, to explain the thing 
 
 Honeyw. {aside.) O ! curse your explanations. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to 
 speak with you upon earnest business. 
 
 Honeyw. Thai's lucky {Aside). — Dear madam, 
 you'll excuse me, and my good friends here, for a 
 few minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse 
 you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no 
 ceremony with such friends. After you, sir. Ex- 
 cuse me. Well, if I must. But I know your 
 natural politeness ! 
 
 Bailiff. Before and behind, you know.
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 235 
 
 Follower. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and 
 behind ! 
 [Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower. 
 
 Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet ? 
 
 Gar. Mean, madam? why, what should it 
 mean, but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see? 
 These people he calls officers, are officers sure 
 enough : sheriff's officers ; bailiffs, madam ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 
 his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, 
 yet, I own, there's something very ridiculous 
 in them, and a just punishment for his dissimula- 
 tion. 
 
 Gar. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, 
 that the lawyer you just employed to pay his 
 debts, and set him free, has not done it by this 
 time. He ought at least to have been here before 
 now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a 
 man into troubles, than out of them! 
 
 Enter Sir William. 
 Sir Will. For Miss Richland to undertake 
 setting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It 
 has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. 
 Yet, it gives me pleasure to find, that, among a 
 number of worthless friendships, he has made one 
 acquisition of real value ; for there must be some 
 softer passion on her side that prompts this gene- 
 rosity. Ha ! here before me : Fll endeavour to 
 sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person 
 that have had some demands upon the gentleman 
 of this house, I hope you'll excuse me, if, before I 
 enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself!
 
 236 PLAVS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Miss Rich. The precaution was very unneces- 
 sary, sir ! I suppose your wants were only such as 
 my agent had power to satisfy. 
 
 Sir Will. Partly, madam. But I was also 
 willing you should be fully apprized of the charac- 
 ter of the gentleman you intended to serve. 
 
 Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very ill 
 grace from you. To censure it, after what you 
 have done, would look like malice ; and to speak 
 favourably of a character you have oppressed, 
 would be impeaching your own. And, sure, his 
 tenderness, his humanity, his universal friendship, 
 may atone for many faults ! 
 
 Sir Will. That friendship, madam, which is 
 exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally 
 useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, dis- 
 appears when diffused too widely. They, who 
 pretend most to this universal benevolence, are 
 either deceivers, or dupes. Men who desire to 
 cover their private ill-nature, by a pretended regard 
 for all ; or, men who, reasoning themselves into 
 false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit of splen- 
 did, than of useful virtues. 
 
 Miss Rich. I am surprised, sir, to hear one who 
 has probably been a gainer by the folly of others, 
 so severe in his censure of it. 
 
 Sir Will. Whatever I may have gained by folly, 
 madam, you see I am willing to prevent your losing 
 by it. 
 
 Miss Rich. Your cares for me, sir, are unneces- 
 sary ! I always suspect those services which are 
 denied where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps 
 in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions have
 
 THE GOOD-NATURE D MAN. 237 
 
 been given, and I insist upon their being complied 
 with. 
 
 Sir Will. Thou amiable woman ! I can no 
 longer contain the expressions of my gratitude : 
 my pleasure. You see before you, one who has 
 been equally careful of his interest : one who has 
 for some time been a concealed spectator of his 
 follies, and only punished in hopes to reclaim them 
 —His uncle ! 
 
 Miss Rick. Sir William Honey wood ! You 
 amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion ? 
 I fear, sir, you'll think I have i>een too forward in 
 my services, I confess I 
 
 Sir Will. Don't make any apologies, madam. 
 I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. 
 And yet, I have been trying my interest of late to 
 save you. Having learnt, madam, that you had 
 some demands upon government, I have, though 
 unasked, been your solicitor there. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your 
 intentions. But my guardian has employed another 
 gentleman who assures him of success. 
 
 Sir Will. Who, the important little man that 
 visits here ! Trust me, madam, he's quite con- 
 temptible among men in power, and utterly unable 
 to serve you. Mr. Lofty's promises are much better 
 known to people of fashion than his person, I 
 assure you. 
 
 Miss Rich. How have we been deceived ! As 
 sure as can be, here he comes. 
 
 Sir Will. Does he? Remember I'm to continue 
 unknown. My return to England has not as yet 
 been made public. With what impudence he enters!
 
 2^8 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Lofty. 
 
 Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off, 
 I'll visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland 
 here before me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of 
 humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things of this 
 kind should happen, especially to a man I have 
 shewn everywhere, and carried amongst us as a 
 particular acquaintance. 
 
 Miss Rich. I find, sir, you have the art of making 
 the misfortunes of others your own. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man 
 like me, do ? One man can't do everything ; and 
 then, I do so much in this way every day : Let 
 me see, something considerable might be done for 
 him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried 
 the list. I'll undertake to set down a brace of 
 dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, 
 at my own peril ! 
 
 Sir Will. And after all, it's more than probable, 
 sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful 
 patronage. 
 
 Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do ? You 
 know I never make promises. In truth, I once or 
 twice tried to do something with him in the way 
 of business ; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir 
 William Honeywood, the man was utterly im- 
 practicable. 
 
 •Sir Will. His uncle ! Then that gentleman, I 
 suppose, is a particular friend of yours. 
 
 Lofty. Meaning me, sir?— Yes, madam, as I 
 often said, my dear Sir William, you are sensible 
 I would do anything as far as my poor interest
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 23 g 
 
 goes, to serve your family ; but what can be done ? 
 there's no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate 
 abilities. 
 
 Miss Rich. I have heard of Sir William Honey- 
 wood ; he's abroad in employment; he confided 
 in your judgment, I suppose. 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, madam ; I believe Sir William 
 has some reason to confide in my judgment ; one 
 little reason, perhaps. 
 
 Miss Rich. Pray, sir, what was it ? 
 
 Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no further- 
 it was I procured him his place. 
 
 Sir Will. Did you, sir ? 
 
 Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 
 
 Miss Rich. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, 
 indeed. 
 
 Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some 
 amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to be toast- 
 master to a club, or had a better head. 
 
 Miss Rich. A better head ? 
 
 Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, he was as 
 dull as a choice spirit ; but hang it, he was grate- 
 ful, very grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude 
 of faults ! 
 
 Sir Will. He might have reason, perhaps. His 
 place is pretty considerable, I'm told. 
 
 Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle, among us men of 
 business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill 
 up a greater. 
 
 Sir Will. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? 
 I'm told he's much about my size and figure, sir. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; 
 but then he wanted a something — a consequence
 
 240 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 of form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives 
 my meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich. O perfectly ! you courtiers can do 
 anything, I see ! 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere 
 exchange ; we do greater tilings for one another 
 every day. Why, as thus, now : let me suppose 
 you the first lord of the Treasury, you have an em- 
 ployment in you that I want ; I have a place in 
 me that you want ; do me here, do you there : in- 
 terest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, 
 and its over. 
 
 Sir Will. A thought strikes me. {Aside.) — Now 
 you mention Sir William Iloneywood, madam ; 
 and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours ; 
 you'll be glad to hear he's arrived from Italy ; I 
 had it from a friend who knows him as well as 
 he does me, and you may depend on my infor- 
 mation. 
 
 Lofty. The devil he is ! — If I had known that, 
 we should not have been quite so well acquainted. 
 {Aside. ) 
 
 Sir Will. lie is certainly returned ; and as this 
 gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal 
 service to us, by introdue-ing me to him ; there are 
 some papers relative to your affairs, that require 
 dispatch and his inspection. 
 
 Miss Rich. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a per- 
 son employed in my affairs : I know you'll serve us ! 
 
 L.ofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. 
 Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think 
 proper to command it, 
 
 Sir Will. That would be quite unnecessary.
 
 THE COOD-NATUR'D MAN. 241 
 
 Lofty. Well, we must introduce you, then. Call 
 upon me — let me see — ay, in two days. 
 
 Sir Will. Now, or the opportunity will be lost 
 for ever. 
 
 Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. 
 But, damn it, that's unfortunate ; my lord Grig's 
 cursed Pensacola business comes on this veiy hour, 
 and I'm engaged to attend — another time — 
 
 Sir Will. A short letter to Sir William will do. 
 
 Lofty. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a 
 letter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to 
 face, that's my way. 
 
 Sir Will. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds, sir, do you pretend to direct 
 me ; direct me in the business of office ? Do you 
 know me, sir ? who am I ? 
 
 Miss Rich. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not 
 so much his as mine ; if my commands — but you 
 despise my power. 
 
 Lofty. Delicate creature ! your commands could 
 even control a debate at midnight ; to a power so 
 constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. 
 He shall have a letter; where is my secretary? 
 Dubardieu ! And yet I protest I don't like this 
 way of doing business. I think if I spoke first to 
 Sir William — But you will have it so. 
 
 [Exit with Miss Rich. 
 
 Sir William alone. 
 Sir Will. Ha, ha, ha ! This, too, is one of my 
 nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity, thou con- 
 stant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt, serve 
 but to sink us. Thy false colourings, like those cm- 
 
 R
 
 242 rLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ployed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that 
 bloom which they contribute to destroy. I'm not 
 displeased at this interview ; exposing this fellow's 
 impudence to the contempt it deserves, may be of 
 use to my design ; at least, if he can reflect, it 
 will be of use to himself. 
 
 Enter Jarvis. 
 
 Sir Will. How now, Jarvis, where 's your mas- 
 ter, my nephew ? 
 
 Jarvis. At his wit's end, I believe ; he's scarce 
 gotten out of one scrape, but he's running his head 
 into another. 
 
 Sir Will. How so ? 
 
 Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of 
 the bailiffs, and now he's again engaging tooth and 
 nail in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a 
 clandestine match with the young lady that passes in 
 the house for his sister ! 
 
 Sir Will. Ever busy to serve others. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, anybody but himself. The young 
 couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland, 
 and he supplies them with money for the journey. 
 
 Sir Will. Money ! how is he able to supply 
 others, who has scarce any for himself? 
 
 Jarvis. Why, there it is ; he has no money, that's 
 true ; but then, as he never said no to any request 
 in his life, he has given them a bill drawn by a 
 friend of his upon a merchant in the city, which I 
 am to get changed ; for you must know that I am 
 to go with them to Scotland myself. 
 
 Sir Will. How ! 
 
 Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 243 
 
 to take a different road from his mistress, as he is 
 to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the 
 way, in order to prepare a place for their reception, 
 when they return ; so they have borrowed me from 
 my master, as the properest person to attend the 
 young lady down. 
 
 Sir Will. To the land of matrimony ! A 
 pleasant journey, Jarvis. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues 
 on't. 
 
 Sir Will. Well, it may be shorter, and less 
 fatiguing than you imagine. I know but too much 
 of the young lady's family and connexions, whom 
 I have seen abroad. I have also discovered that 
 Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thoughtless 
 nephew : and will endeavour, though I fear, in vain, 
 to establish that connexion. But, come, the letter 
 I wait for must be almost finished ; I'll let you 
 further into my intentions, in the next room. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
 f »te
 
 244 PL A VS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 Scene. — Croaker's House. 
 Lofty. 
 
 Lofty. 
 ELL, sine the devil's in me of late, for 
 running my head into such defiles, as 
 nothing but a genius like my own could 
 draw me from. I was formerly con- 
 tented to husband out my places and pensions with 
 some degree of frugality ; but, curse it, of late I 
 have given away the whole Court Register in less 
 time than they could print the title page ; yet, hang 
 it, why scruple a lie or two to come at a fine girl, 
 when I every day tell- a thousand for nothing. 
 Ha ! Honeywood here before me. Could Miss 
 Richland have set him at liberty ? 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad 
 again. I find my concurrence was not necessary 
 in your unfortunate affairs. I had put things in a 
 train to do your business ; but it is not for me to 
 say what I intended doing. 
 
 Honeyw. It was unfortunate, indeed, sir. But 
 what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem 
 to be acquainted with my misfortune, I, myself, 
 continue still a stranger to my benefactor.
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 24s 
 
 Lojiy. How! not know the friend that served you? 
 
 Honeyw. Can't guess at the person. 
 
 Lofty. Enquire. 
 
 Honeyw. I have, but all I can learn is, that he 
 chooses to remain concealed, and that all enquiry- 
 must be fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Must be fruitless ? 
 
 Honeyw. Absolutely fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Sure of that ? 
 
 Honeyw. Very sure. 
 
 Lofty. Then I'll be damned if you shall ever 
 know it from me. 
 
 Honeyw. How, sir ! 
 
 Lofty. I suppose, now, Mr. Honeyvvood, you 
 think my rent-roll very considerable, and that I have 
 vast sums of money to throw away ; I know you 
 do. The world, to be sure, says such things of me. 
 
 Honeyw. The world, by what I learn, is no 
 stranger to your generosity. But where does this 
 tend ? 
 
 Lofty. To nothing ; nothing in the world. The 
 town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as 
 me the subject of conversation, has asserted, that 
 I never yet patronized a man of merit. 
 
 Honeyw. I have heard instances to the contrary, 
 even from yourself. 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Honeyvvood, and there are instances 
 to the contrary that you shall never hear from 
 myself. 
 
 Honeyw. Ha, dear sir, permit me to ask you but 
 one question. 
 
 Lofty. Sir, ask me noquestions : I say, sir, ask me 
 no questions ; I'll be damned if I answer them !
 
 246 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Honeyw. I will ask no further. My friend, my 
 benefactor, it is, it must be here, that I am in- 
 debted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou 
 worthiest of men, from the beginning I suspected 
 it, but was afraid to return thanks ; which, if un- 
 deserved, might seem reproaches. 
 
 Lofty. I protest I don't understand all this, Mr. 
 Honey wood ! You treat me very cavalierly. I do 
 assure you, sir. — Blood, sir, can't a man be per- 
 mitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings with- 
 out all this parade ? 
 
 Honeyw. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an 
 action that adds to your honour. Your looks, 
 your air, your manner, all confess it. 
 
 Lofty. Confess it, sir ! Torture itself, sir, shall 
 never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I 
 have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't 
 let us fall out ; make me happy, and let this be 
 buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation ; 
 you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you 
 know I always loved to be a friend, and not a 
 patron. I beg this may make no kind of distance 
 between us. Come, come, you and I must be 
 more familiar — Indeed we must. 
 
 Honeyiv. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such 
 friendship ! Is there any way ! Thou best of men, 
 can I ever return the obligation ? 
 
 Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle. But I see 
 your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall 
 be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint 
 you. 
 
 Honeyw. I low ! Teach me the manner. Is 
 there any way ?
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 2 47 
 
 Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, 
 my friend, you shall know it — I'm in love ! 
 
 Honeyw. And can I assist you ? 
 
 Lofty. Nobody so well. 
 
 Honeyw. In what manner ? I'm all impatience. 
 
 Lofty. You shall make love for me. 
 
 Honeyw. And to whom shall I speak in your 
 favour? 
 
 Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great 
 interest, I assure you. Miss Richland ! 
 
 LLoneyw. Miss Richland ! 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the 
 blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter ! 
 
 LLoneyzu. Heavens ! was ever anything more un- 
 fortunate ! It is too much to be endured. 
 
 Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can 
 endure it, till you have opened the affair to her for 
 me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me. 
 I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does. 
 
 Honeyw. Indeed ! But do you know the person 
 you apply to ? 
 
 Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : 
 that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the 
 success of my passion. I'll say no more, let friend- 
 ship do the rest. I have only to add, that if at any 
 time my little interest can be of service — but, hang 
 it, I'll make no promises — you know my interest is 
 yours at any time. No apologies, my friend, I'll 
 not be answered, it shall be so. {Exit. 
 
 Honeyw. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! 
 He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such 
 an ardent passion ! — But then it was ever but a 
 \ain and hopeless one \ my torment, my persecu-
 
 343 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 tion ! What shall I do ! Love, friendship, a 
 hopeless passion, a deserving friend ! Love, that 
 has been my tormentor; a friend, that has, perhaps, 
 distressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. 
 Yes, I will discard the fondling hope from my 
 bosom, and exert all my influence in his favour. 
 And yet to see her in the possession of another ! — 
 Insupportable. But then to betray a generous, 
 trusting friend ! — Worse, worse. Yes, I'm re- 
 solved. Let me but be the instrument of their 
 happiness, and then quit a country, where I must 
 for ever despair of finding my own. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a 
 Milliner's Box. 
 
 Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. 
 No news of Jarvis yet ? I believe the old peevish 
 creature delays purely to vex me . 
 
 Gar. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him 
 say a little snubbing before marriage would teach 
 you to bear it the better afterwards. 
 
 Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had 
 only to get a bill changed in the city ! How pro- 
 voking ! 
 
 Car. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had 
 twice as much to do, is setting off by this time 
 from his inn : and here you are left behind. 
 
 Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, 
 however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, 
 Garnet ? 
 
 Gar. Not a stick, madam — all's here. Yet I 
 wish you could take the white and silver to be 
 married in. It's the worst luck in the world, in
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 249 
 
 anything but white. I knew one Bet Stubbs, of 
 our town, that was married in red ; and, as sure 
 as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff 
 before morning. 
 
 Olivia. No matter. I'm all impatience till we 
 are out of the house. 
 
 Gar. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot 
 the wedding-ring ! — The sweet little thing— I don't 
 think it would go on my little finger. And what 
 if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of 
 necessity, madam ? But here's Jarvis. 
 
 Enter Jarvis. 
 Olivia. O, Jarvis, are you come at last? We 
 have been ready this half hour. Now let's be 
 going. Let us fly ! 
 
 Jarvis. Aye, to Jericho ! for we shall have no 
 going to Scotland this bout, I fancy. 
 Olivia. How! What's the matter? 
 Jarvis. Money, money, is the matter, madam. 
 We have got no money. What the plague do you 
 send me of your fool's errand for ? My master's 
 bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; 
 Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it. 
 
 Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve 
 us so ! What shall we do ? Can't we go without it? 
 Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To 
 Scotland without money ! Lord how some people 
 understand geography ! We might as well set 
 sail for Patagonia upon a cork jacket. 
 
 Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base 
 insincere man was your master, to serve us in this 
 manner. Is this his good nature ?
 
 25° FLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Jarvis. Nay, don't talk illof my master, madam. I 
 won't bear to hear anybody talk ill of him but myself. 
 
 Gar. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you 
 need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leon- 
 tine receive forty guineas from his father just 
 before he set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. 
 A short letter will reach him there. 
 
 Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet ; I'll write 
 immediately. How's this ! Bless me, my hand 
 trembles so, I can't write a word. Do you write, 
 Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be 
 better from you. 
 
 Gar. Truly, madam, I write and indite but 
 poorly. I never was kute in my laming. But I'll 
 do what I can to please you. Let me sec. All 
 out of my own head, I suppose ? 
 
 Olivia. Whatever you please. 
 
 Gar. {Writing.) Muster Croaker — Twenty 
 guineas, madam ? 
 
 Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. 
 
 Gar. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. 
 Expedition — will be blown up — all of a flame — ■ 
 Quick, dispatch — Cupid, the little God of Love — 
 I conclude it, madam, with Cupid ; I love to see a 
 love-letter end like poetry. 1 
 
 Olivia. Well, well, what you please, anything. 
 But how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the 
 servants of this family. 
 
 Gar. Odso, madam, Mr. Honey wood's butler 
 is in the next room ; he's a dear, sweet man ; he'll 
 do anything for me. 
 
 [ l Sam Wellcr's opinion. Cf. Fickwkk Fa/crs, d}. 
 xxxiii.J
 
 THE GOOD-NAT UR'D MAN. 25X 
 
 Jarvis. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit 
 some blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a 
 day ! 
 
 Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet ; anybody we 
 can trust will do. [Exit Garnet.] Well, Jarvis, 
 now we can have nothing more to interrupt us. 
 You may take up the things, and carry them on to 
 the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ? 
 
 Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are 
 going to be married, think things can never be 
 done too fast : but we that are old, and know what 
 we are about, must elope methodically, madam. 
 
 Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to 
 
 be done over again 
 
 Jarvis. My life for it you would do them ten 
 times over. 
 
 Olivia. Why will you talk so? If you knew 
 
 how unhappy they make me 
 
 Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once 
 just as unhappy when I was going to be married 
 myself. I'll tell you a story about that 
 
 Olivia. A story ! when I'm all impatience to be 
 
 away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! 
 
 Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why 
 we will march ; that's all. Though, odds bobs 
 we have still forgot one thing we should never 
 travel without — a case of good razors, and a box of 
 shaving-powder. But no matter, I believe we 
 shall be pretty well shaved by the way. [Goi/i:;: 
 
 Enter GARNET. 
 Garnet. Undone, undone, madam ! Ah, Mr. 
 Jarvis, you said right enough. As sure as death
 
 252 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler 
 dropped the letter before he went ten yards from 
 the door. There's old Croaker has just picked it 
 up, and is this moment reading it to himself in the 
 hall! 
 
 Olivia. Unfortunate ! We shall be discovered ! 
 
 Gar. No, madam ; don't be uneasy, he can 
 make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure he 
 looks as if he was broke loose from Bedlam about 
 it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O 
 Lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors ! 
 
 Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant, 
 for fear he should ask further questions. In the 
 mean time, Garnet, do you write and send off just 
 such another. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Death and destruction ! Are all the 
 horrors of air, fire and water to be levelled only at 
 me ! Am I only to be singled out for gunpowder- 
 plots, combustibles, and conflagration ! Here it is 
 — An incendiary letter dropped at my door. To 
 Cluster Croaker, these, with speed. Ay, ay, plain 
 enough the direction : all in the genuine incen- 
 diary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. With 
 speed. O, confound your speed. But let me read 
 it once more. {Reads.) 
 
 Mnstar Croakar as sone as yoew see this leve 
 tzuenty giuines at the bar of the Talboot tell caledfor 
 or yozve and yower expcretion zuill be al blown up I 
 All, but too plain ! Blood and gunpowder in every 
 line of it. Blown up ! murderous dog ! All blown 
 up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor family
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 253 
 
 done, to be all blown up ? (Reads.) Our pockets 
 are low, and money we must have. Ay, there's the 
 reason ; they'll blow us up, because they have got 
 low pockets. (Reads.) It is but a short time you 
 have to consider ; for if this takes wind, the house 
 will quickly be all of aflame. Inhuman monsters ! 
 blow us up, and then burn us. The earthquake at 
 Lisbon was but a bonfire to it! (Reads.) Make 
 quick dispatch, and so no more at present. But 
 may Cupid, the little God of Love, go with you 
 wherever you go. The little God of Love ! Cupid, 
 the little God of Love go with me ! Go you to the 
 devil, you and your little Cupid together ; I'm so 
 frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or 
 go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted 
 matches, blazing brimstone and barrels of gun- 
 powder. They are preparing to blow me up into 
 the clouds. Murder ! We shall be all burnt in 
 our beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds.' 
 
 Enter Miss Richland. 
 
 Miss Rich. Lord, sir, what's the matter ? 
 
 Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all 
 blown up in our beds before morning ! 
 
 Miss Rich. I hope not, sir. 
 
 Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, 
 when I have a certificate of it here in my hand? 
 Will nothing alarm my family ? Sleeping and 
 eating, sleeping and eating is the only work from 
 morning till night in my house. My insensible 
 
 t 1 Shuter's reading of this letter is said to have decided the 
 success of the play.]
 
 254 PLATS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 crew could sleep, though rocked by an earthquake, 
 and fry beef steaks at a volcano ! 
 
 Miss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so 
 often already, we have nothing but earthquakes, 
 famines, plagues, and mad dogs from year's end to 
 year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above a 
 month ago, that you assured us of a conspiracy 
 among the bakers, to poison us in our bread ; and 
 so kept the whole family a week upon potatoes. 
 
 Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. 
 But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I 
 should be facing the enemy without ? Here, John, 
 Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the 
 cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below ; 
 and above, in the apartments, that no matches be 
 thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put 
 out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, 
 to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Richland alone. 
 Miss Rich. What can he mean by all this? Yet, 
 why should I enquire, when he alarms us in this 
 manner almost every day ? But Honeywood has 
 desired an interview with me in private. What 
 can he mean ; or, rather, what means this palpita- 
 tion at his approach? It is the first time he ever 
 shewed anything in his conduct that seemed par- 
 ticular. Sure he cannot mean to but he's 
 
 here. 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 Honeyw. I presumed to solicit this interview, 
 madam, before I left town, to be permitted —
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 255 
 
 Miss Rich. Indeed! Leaving town, sir ? — ■ 
 
 Jloneyw. Yes, madam ; perhaps the kingdom. 
 I have presumed, I say, to desire the favour of 
 this interview — in order to disclose something 
 which our long friendship prompts. And yet my 
 fears — 
 
 Miss Rich. His fears ! What are his fears to 
 mine? {Aside.) — We have indeed been long ac- 
 quainted, sir ; very long. If I remember, our 
 first meeting was at the French Ambassador's. — 
 Do you recollect how you were pleased to rally 
 me upon my complexion there? 
 
 Honeynv. Perfectly, madam ; I presumed to re- 
 prove you for painting : but your warmer blushes 
 soon convinced the company that the colouring 
 was all from nature. 
 
 Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it, in your 
 good-natur'd way, to make me pay a compliment 
 to myself. In the same manner you danced that 
 night with the most awkward woman in company, 
 because you saw nobody else would take her out. 
 
 Honeytv. Yes ; and was rewarded the next 
 night, by dancing with the finest woman in com- 
 pany, whom everybody wished to take out. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I 
 fear your judgment has since corrected the errors 
 of a first impression. We generally show to most 
 advantage at first. Our sex are like poor trades- 
 men, that put all their best goods to be seen at 
 the windows. 
 
 Honeyw. The first impression, madam, did in- 
 deed deceive me. I expected to find a woman 
 with all the faults of conscious flattered beauty.
 
 256 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 I expected to find her vain and insolent. But 
 every day has since taught me that it is possible 
 to possess sense without pride, and beauty without 
 affectation. 
 
 Miss Rich. This, sir, is a style unusual with 
 Mr. Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know 
 why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, 
 which his own lessons have taught me to despise. 
 
 Honeyw. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from 
 our long friendship, I presumed I might have 
 some right to offer, without offence, what you 
 may refuse without offending. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect ; though, 
 I fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a 
 request of yours ; yet, you may be precipitate : 
 consider, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. I own my rashness ; but, as I plead 
 the cause of friendship, of one who loves — Don't 
 be alarmed, madam — Who loves you with the 
 most ardent passion ; whose whole happiness is 
 placed in you — 
 
 Miss Rich. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom 
 you mean, by this description of him. 
 
 Honeyw. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points 
 him out ; though he should be too humble himself 
 to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to 
 understand them. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well ; it would be affectation any 
 longer to pretend ignorance ; and, I will own, sir, 
 T have long been prejudiced in his favour. It 
 was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, 
 as he seemed himself ignorant of its value. 
 
 Honeyw. I see she always loved him ! (Aside). —
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 257 
 
 I find, madam, you're already sensible of his 
 worth, his passion. How happy is my friend, to 
 be the favourite of one with such sense to distin- 
 guish merit, and such beauty to reward it ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Your friend ! sir. "What friend ? 
 
 Honeyw. My best friend — My friend Mr. Lofty, 
 madam. 
 
 Miss Rich. He, sir ! 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, he, madam ! He is, indeed, what 
 your warmest wishes might have formed him. 
 And to his other qualities, he adds that of the 
 most passionate regard for you. 
 
 Miss Rich. Amazement ! — No more of this, I 
 beg you, sir. 
 
 Honeyw. I see your confusion, madam, and 
 know how to interpret it. And since I so plainly 
 read the language of your heart, shall I make my 
 friend happy, by communicating your sentiments? 
 
 Miss Rich. By no means. 
 
 Honeyw. Excuse me ; I must ; I know you 
 desire it. 
 
 Miss Rich. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, 
 that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. 
 When I first applied to your friendship, I ex- 
 pected advice and assistance ; but now, sir, I see 
 that it is vain to expect happiness from him, who 
 has been so bad an economist of his own ; and 
 that I must disclaim his friendship, who ceases to 
 be a friend to himself. [Exit. 
 
 Honeyw. How is this ! she has confessed she 
 loved him, and yet she seemed to part in dis- 
 pleasure. Can I have done anything to reproach 
 myself with ? No ; I believe not ; yet, after all, 
 
 s
 
 =58 PLAYS OF COLDS RUTH. 
 
 these things should not be done by a third person; 
 I should have spared her confusion. My friend- 
 ship carried me a little too far. 
 
 Enter Croaker, with the Letter in his Hand, 
 and Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Ha, ha, ha ! And so, my dear, 
 it's your supreme wish that I should be quite 
 wretched upon this occasion ? Ha, ha. 
 
 Croaker. {Mimicking) Ha, ha, ha ! and so, my 
 dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no 
 better consolation ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my dear, what is this 
 incendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? Our house 
 may travel through the air like the house of 
 Loretto, 1 for ought I care, if I'm to be miserable 
 in it. 
 
 Croaker. Would to Heaven it were converted 
 into a house of correction for your benefit. Have 
 we not everything to alarm us? Perhaps, this 
 very moment, the tragedy is beginning. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress 
 till the rising of the curtain, or give them the 
 money they want, and have done with them. 
 
 Croaker. Give them my money ! — And pray, 
 what right have they to my money ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right then have 
 you to my good humour ? 
 
 Croaker. And so your good humour advises me 
 to part with my money ? Why, then, to tell your 
 
 [! The Santa Casa, or House of the Virgin, is said to have 
 been miraculously transported into various towns until it 
 settled finally at Loretto.]
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 25 g 
 
 good humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part 
 with my wife ! Here's Mr. Honeywood, see what 
 he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this 
 incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will 
 freeze you with terror ; and yet lovey here can 
 read it — can read it, and laugh ! 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honey- 
 wood. 
 
 Croaker. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the 
 next minute in the rogue's place, that's all ! 
 
 Airs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ! is 
 there anything more foolish than my husband's 
 fright upon this occasion ? 
 
 Ho7ieyw. It would not become me to decide, 
 madam ; but doubtless, the greatness of his terrors 
 now, will but invite them to renew their villainy 
 another time. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 
 
 Croaker. How, sir ! do you maintain that I 
 should lie down under such an injury, and show, 
 neither by my tears, or complaints, that I have 
 something of the spirit of a man in me? 
 
 Honeytv. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make 
 the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The 
 surest way to have redress, is to be earnest in the 
 pursuit of it. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laughing 
 off our fears is the best way? 
 
 Iloneynv. What is the best, madam, few can 
 say ; but I'll maintain it to be a very wise way. 
 
 Croaker. Rut we're talking of the best. Surely 
 the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and
 
 260 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 not wait till he plunders us in our very bed 
 chamber. 
 
 Honeyw. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's 
 a very wise way too. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But can anything be more absurd, 
 than to double our distresses by our apprehensions, 
 and put it in the power of every low fellow, that 
 can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to 
 torment us ? 
 
 Honeyw. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 
 
 Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd 
 to despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? 
 
 Honeyw. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 
 
 Croaker. Then you are of my opinion? 
 
 Honeyw. Entirely. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine ? 
 
 Honeyw. Heaven forbid, madam. No, sure, 
 no reasoning can be more just than yours. We 
 ought certainly to despise malice if we cannot 
 oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as 
 fatal to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. O ! then you think I'm quite 
 right ? 
 
 Honeyw. Perfectly right ! 
 
 Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both 
 right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. 
 My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be 
 off. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite 
 opinions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other 
 can't be perfectly right. 
 
 Honeyw. And why may not both be right, 
 madam? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress,
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 261 
 
 and you in waiting the event with good humour ? 
 Pray let me see the letter again. I have it. This 
 letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar 
 of the Talbot inn. If it be indeed an incendiary 
 letter, what if you and I, sir, go there ; and, when 
 the writer comes to be paid his expected booty, 
 seize him? 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, it's the very thing ; the 
 very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall 
 plant yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst out 
 upon the miscreant like a masked battery ; ex- 
 tort a confession at once, and so hang him up by 
 surprise. 
 
 Honeyw. Yes ; but I would not choose to ex- 
 ercise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, 
 that crimes generally punish themselves. 
 
 Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, 
 I suppose ? {Ironically. ) 
 
 Honeyw. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own 
 benevolence. 
 
 Honeyw. Well, I do : but remember that uni- 
 versal benevolence is the first law of nature. 
 
 [Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croak kr. 
 
 Croaker. Yes ; and my universal benevolence 
 will hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a 
 hydra ! 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
 
 26 2 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH 
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 Scene. — An Inn. 
 
 Enter Olivia, Jarvis. 
 Olivia. 
 jlELL, we have got safe to the inn, how- 
 ever. Now, if the post-chaise were 
 ready — 
 Jarvis. The horses are just finishing 
 their oats ; and, as they are not going to be 
 married, they choose to take their own time. 
 
 Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives 
 to my impatience. 
 
 Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses 
 must take their own time ; besides, you don't 
 consider, we have got no answer from our fellow- 
 traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leon- 
 tine, we have only one way left us. 
 Olivia. What way? 
 Jarvis. The way home again. 
 Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to 
 go, and nothing shall induce me to break it. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay ; resolutions are well kept when 
 they jump with inclination. However, I'll go 
 hasten things without. And I'll call too at the 
 bar to see if anything should be left for us there.
 
 THE GOOn-NATUR'D MAN. 263 
 
 Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we 
 shall go the faster, I promise you. {Exit Jarvis. 
 
 Enter Landlady. 
 
 Landlady. What ! Solomon ; why don't you 
 move? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. — 
 Will nobody answer? To the Dolphin; quick. 
 The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. 
 Did your ladyship call, madam ? 
 
 Olivia. No, madam. 
 
 Landlady. I find, as you're for Scotland, madam 
 — But, that's no business of mine ; married, or 
 not married, I ask no questions. To be sure, we 
 had a sweet little couple set off from this two days 
 ago for the same place. The gentleman, for a 
 tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor, as 
 ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young 
 lady so bashful, it was near half an hour before we 
 could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between 
 us. 
 
 Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going 
 to be married, I assure you. 
 
 Landlady. May be not. That's no business of 
 mine ; for certain, Scotch marriages seldom turn 
 out. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss 
 Macfag, that married her father's footman.— 
 Alack-a-day, she and her husband soon parted, 
 and now keep separate cellars in Hedge 
 Lane. 1 
 
 [ l CJ. Goldsmith s essay entitled A Register of Scotch 
 Marriages, in the Westminster Magazine, February, 
 1773.]
 
 264 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Olivia, {aside.) A very pretty picture of what 
 lies before me. 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 
 Leont. My dear Olivia, my anxiety till you were 
 out of clanger, was too great to be resisted. I 
 could not help coining to see you set out, though 
 it exposes us to a discovery. 
 
 Olivia. May everything you do prove as for- 
 tunate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most 
 cruelly disappointed. Mr. Honeyvvood's bill upon 
 the city, has, it seems, been protested, and we 
 have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. 
 
 Leont. How ! An offer of his own too. Sure, 
 he could not mean to deceive us. 
 
 Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only 
 mistook the desire for the power of serving us. 
 But let us think no more of it. I believe the post- 
 chaise is ready by this. 
 
 Landlady. Not quite yet : and, begging your 
 ladyship's pardon, I don't think your ladyship 
 quite ready for the post-chaise. The north road 
 is a cold place, madam. I have a drop in the 
 house of as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over 
 tongue. Just a thimbleful to keep the wind off 
 your stomach. To be sure, the last couple we 
 had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. 
 Ecod, I sent them both away as good-natur'd — 
 Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and 
 drive away post-boy, was the word. 
 
 Enter Croaker. 
 Croaker. Well, while my friend Iloncywood is
 
 THE GOOD-NAT UR' D MAN. 265 
 
 upon the post of danger at the bar, it must be my 
 business to have an eye about "me here. I think I 
 know an incendiary's look ; for, wherever the 
 devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his 
 mark. Ha! who have we here? My son and 
 daughter ! What can they be doing here? 
 
 Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you 
 good ; I think I know by this time what's good 
 for the north road. It's a raw night, madam — 
 sir— 
 
 Leont. Not a drop more, good madam. I 
 should now take it as a greater favour, if you 
 hasten the horses, for I am afraid to be seen 
 myself. 
 
 Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! 
 are you all dead there ? Wha, Solomon, I say. 
 
 [Exit bazvling. 
 
 Olivia. Well ; I dread lest an expedition begun 
 in fear should end in repentance. — Every moment 
 we stay increases our danger, and adds to my 
 apprehensions. 
 
 Leont. There's no danger, trust me, my dear ; 
 there can be none : if Honeywood has acted with 
 honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in 
 employment, till we are out of danger, nothing can 
 interrupt our journey. 
 
 Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's 
 sincerity, and even his desires to serve us. My 
 fears are from your father's suspicions. A mind 
 so disposed to be alarmed without a caiue, will be 
 but too ready when there's a reason. 
 
 Leont. Why, let him, when we are out of his 
 power. But, believe me, Olivia, you have no
 
 ^66 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 great reason to dread his resentment. His re- 
 pining temper, as it does no manner of injury to 
 himself, so will it never do harm to others. He 
 only frets to keep himself employed, and scolds 
 for his private amusement. 
 
 Olivia. I don't know that ; but, I'm sure, on 
 some occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. 
 
 Croaker. (Discovering himself.) How does he 
 look now ? — How does he look now ? 
 
 Olivia. Ah ! 
 
 Leont. Undone ! 
 
 Croaker. How do I look now? Sir, I am your 
 very humble servant. Madam, I am yours. What, 
 you are going off, are you ? Then, first, if you 
 please, take a word or two from me with you 
 before you go. Tell me first where you are going, 
 and when you have told me that, perhaps I shall 
 know as little as I did before. 
 
 Leont. If that be so, our answer might but 
 increase your displeasure, without adding to your 
 information. 
 
 Croaker. I want no information from you, 
 puppy ; and you, too, good madam, what answer 
 have you got ? Eh! (A cry without, stop him.) I 
 think I heard a noise. My friend, Honeywood, 
 without — has he seized the incendiary? Ah, no, 
 for now I hear no more on't. 
 
 Leont. Honeywood, without ! Then, sir, it was 
 Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither. 
 
 Croaker. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood con- 
 ducted me hither. 
 
 Leont. Is it possible ? 
 
 Croaker. Possible ! Why, he's in the house
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 267 
 
 now, sir. More anxious about me, than my own 
 son, sir. 
 
 Leont. Then, sir, he's a villain! 
 
 Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he 
 takes most care of your father ? I'll not bear it. 
 I tell you I'll not bear it. Honey wood is a friend 
 to the family, and I'll have him treated as such. 
 
 Leont. I shall study to repay his friendship as it 
 deserves. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly 
 he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means 
 to detect them, you would love him as I do. (A 
 cry without, stop him. ) Fire and fury ! they have 
 seized the incendiary : they have the villain, the 
 incendiary in view. Stop him, stop an incendiary, 
 a murderer ; stop him ! [Exit. 
 
 Olivia. Oh, my terrors ! What can this new 
 tumult mean ? 
 
 Leont. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. 
 Honeywood's sincerity. But we shall have satis- 
 faction : he shall give me instant satisfaction. 
 
 Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you 
 value my esteem, or my happiness. Whatever be 
 our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes — 
 Consider that our innocence will shortly be all we 
 have left us. You must forgive him. 
 
 Leont. Forgive him ! Has he not in every in- 
 stance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow money 
 from him, which appears a mere trick to delay us: 
 promised to keep my father engaged till we were 
 out of danger, and here brought him to the very 
 scene of our escape ? 
 
 Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet Le 
 mistaken.
 
 268 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Postboy, dragging in Jarvis : Honey- 
 wood entering soon after. 
 
 Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 
 Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the 
 reward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the 
 money at the bar, and then run for it. 
 
 Honeyw. Come, bring him along. Let us see 
 him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. 
 {Discovering his mistake.) Death! what's here! 
 Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this 
 mean ? 
 
 Jarvis. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that 
 I was an old fool, and that you are my master — 
 that's all. 
 
 Honeyw. Confusion ! 
 
 Leont. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word 
 with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you 
 can venture to see the man you have injured. 
 
 Honeyw. My dear Leontine, by my life, my 
 honour — 
 
 Leont. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not 
 continue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I 
 know you, sir, I know you. 
 
 Honeyw. Why, won't you hear me ! By all 
 that's just, I knew not — ■ 
 
 Leont. Hear you, sir ! to what purpose ? I now 
 see through all your low arts ; your ever complying 
 with every opinion ; your never refusing any re- 
 quest ; your friendship as common as a prostitute's 
 favours, and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have long 
 been contemptible to the world, and are now 
 perfectly so to me.
 
 THE GOOD-NAT UR'D MAN. 269 
 
 Honeyw. (aside.) Ha! contemptible to the 
 world ! That reaches me. 
 
 Leont. All the seeming sincerity of your pro- 
 fessions I now find were only allurements to betray ; 
 and all your seeming regret for their consequences, 
 only calculated to cover the cowardice of your 
 heart. Draw, villain ! 
 
 Enter Croaker out of Breath. 
 
 Croaker. Where is the villain? Where is the 
 incendiary? (Seizing the post-boy.) Hold him 
 fast, the dog ; he has the gallows in his face. 
 Come, you dog, confess ; confess all, and hang 
 yourself. 
 
 Post-Boy. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle 
 me for ? 
 
 Croaker. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist ; 
 do you resist? 
 
 Post-Boy. Zounds ! master, I'm not he ; there's 
 the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns 
 out to be one of the company. 
 
 Croaker. How ! 
 
 Honeyiv. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under 
 a strange mistake here ; I find there is nobody 
 guilty ; it was all an error ; entirely an error of 
 our own. 
 
 Croaker. And I say, sir, that you're in an error : 
 for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damn'd 
 Jesuitical pestilential plot, and I must have proof 
 of it. 
 
 Honeyw. Do but hear me. 
 
 Croaker. What, you intend to bring 'em off, I 
 suppose ; I'll hear nothing.
 
 =7° PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Honeyw. Madam, you seem at least calm enougn 
 to hear reason. 
 
 Olivia. Excuse me. 
 
 Honeyw. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to 
 you. 
 
 Jai~vis. What signifies explanation, when the 
 thing is done ? 
 
 Honeyw. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever 
 such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice ! 
 {To the Post- Boy.) My good friend, I believe 
 you'll be surprised when I assure you — 
 
 Post-Boy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing 
 but a good beating. 
 
 Croaker. Come then, you, madam, if you ever 
 hope for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sincerely 
 all you know of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the 
 cause of your suspicions : you see before you, sir, 
 one that with false pretences has stept into your 
 family to betray it : not your daughter — 
 
 Croaker. Not my daughter ! 
 
 Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver 
 —who — support me, I cannot — 
 
 Honeyw. Help, she's going, give her air. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the 
 air ; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose 
 ever daughter she may be — not so bad as that 
 neither. [Pxei/nl all but CROAKER. 
 
 Croaker. Yes, yes, all's out ; I now see the 
 whole affair : my son is either married, or going to 
 be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as 
 his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't find 
 it afflicts me so much as one might think. There's
 
 THE COOD-NATUR'D MAN. 27* 
 
 the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes 
 beforehand, we never feel them when they come. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 
 
 Sir Will. But how do you know, madam, that 
 my nephew intends setting off from this place ? 
 
 Miss Rich. My maid assured me he was come 
 to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending 
 to leave the kingdom, suggested the rest. But 
 what do I see, my guardian here before us ! Who, 
 my dear sir, could have expected meeting you 
 here ; to what accident do we owe this pleasure ? 
 
 Croaker. To a fool, I believe. 
 
 Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you come ? 
 
 Croaker. To play the fool. 
 
 Miss Rich. But with whom? 
 
 Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 
 
 Miss Rich. Explain. 
 
 Croaker. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me 
 here, to do nothing now I am here ; and my son 
 is going to be married to I don't know who that 
 is here ; so now you are as wise as I am. 
 
 Miss Rich. Married! to whom, sir? 
 
 Croaker. To Olivia ; my daughter, as I took 
 her to be ; but who the devil she is, or whose 
 daughter she is, I know no more than the man in 
 the moon. 
 
 Sir Will. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, 
 though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to 
 your family : it will be enough at present, to assure 
 you, that, both in point of birth and fortune, the 
 young lady is at least your son's equal. Being 
 left by her father, Sir James Woodville —
 
 27 2 FLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the 
 West? 
 
 Sir Will. Being left by him, I say, to the care 
 of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to 
 secure her fortune to himself, she was sent into 
 France, under pretence of education ; and there 
 every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, 
 contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was in- 
 formed upon my arrival in Paris ; and, as I had 
 been once her father's friend, I did all in my 
 power to frustrate her guardian's base intentions. 
 I had even meditated to rescue her from his 
 authority, when your son stept in with more 
 pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and you a 
 daughter. 
 
 Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my 
 own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose for- 
 tune, by my interest with those that have interest, 
 will be double what my son has a right to expect ! 
 Do you know Mr. Lofty, sir ? 
 
 Sir Will. Yes, sir ; and know that you are 
 deceived in him. But step this way, and I'll 
 convince you. 
 
 [Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 
 
 Enter Honeywood. 
 Honeyiv. Obstinate man, still to persist in his 
 outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now 
 begin to grow contemptible, even to myself. How 
 have I sunk by too great an assiduity to please ! 
 How have I overtaxed all my abilities, lest the 
 approbation of a single fool should escape me ! 
 But all is now over ; I have survived my reputation,
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 273 
 
 my fortune, my friendships, and nothing remains 
 henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. 
 
 Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that 
 you are setting off, without taking leave of your 
 friends ? The report is, that you are quitting 
 England. Can it be ? 
 
 Honey w. Yes, madam ; and though I am so un- 
 happy as to have fallen under your displeasure, 
 yet, thank Heaven, I leave you to happiness ; to 
 one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one 
 who has power to procure you affluence, and gene- 
 rosity to improve your enjoyment of it. 
 
 Miss Rich. And are you sure, sir, that the 
 gentleman you mean is what you describe him ? 
 
 Honeyw. I have the best assurances of it, his 
 serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest 
 happiness, and that is in your power to confer. 
 As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, 
 obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what 
 happiness can I find but in solitude ? What hope 
 but in being forgotten ? 
 
 Miss Rich. A thousand ! to live among friends 
 that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be 
 permitted to oblige you. 
 
 Honeyw. No, madam ; my resolution is fixed. 
 Inferiority among strangers is easy ; but among 
 those that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, 
 to show you how far my resolution can go, I can 
 now speak with calmness of my former follies, my 
 vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even 
 confess, that, among the number of my other pie- 
 sumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving 
 you. Yes, madam, while 1 was pleading the 
 
 T
 
 274 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 passion of another, my heart was tortured with its 
 own. But it is over, it was unworthy our friend- 
 ship, and let it be forgotten. 
 
 Miss Rich. You amaze me ! 
 
 Honeyiv. But you'll forgive it, I know you will ; 
 since the confession should not have come from 
 me even now, but to convince you of the sincerity 
 of my intention of — never mentioning it more. 
 
 [ Going. 
 
 Miss Rich. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha ! he 
 here— 
 
 Enter Lofty. 
 
 Lofty. Is the coast clear ? None but friends. 
 I have followed you here with a trifling piece of 
 intelligence : but it goes no farther, things are not 
 yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at 
 a certain board ; your affair at the Treasury will 
 be done in less than — a thousand years. Mum ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Sooner, sir, I should hope ! 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into 
 pioper hands, that know whereto push and where 
 to parry ; that know how the land lies — eh, 
 Honey wood? 
 
 Miss Rich. It is fallen into yours. 
 
 Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
 your thing is done. It is done, I say — that's all. 
 I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout, 
 that the claim has been examined, and found ad- 
 missible. Quietus is the word, madam. 
 
 Ifoneyw. But how ! his lordship has been at 
 Newmarket these ten days ! 
 
 Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 275 
 
 have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of 
 him. 
 
 Miss Rich. He ! why Sir Gilbert and his 
 family have been in the country this month ! 
 
 Lofty. This month ! It must certainly be so — 
 Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from New- 
 market, so that he must have met his lordship 
 there ; and so it came about. I have his letter 
 about me, I'll read it to you. ( Taking out a large 
 bundle.) That's from Paoli of Corsica, 1 that from 
 the Marquis of Squilachi. — Have you a mind to 
 see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of 
 
 Poland — Honest Pon [Searching. 
 
 O, sir, what are you here too ? I'll tell you what, 
 honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered 
 my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you may 
 return it. The thing will do without him. 
 
 Sir Will. Sir, I have delivered it, and must 
 inform you it was received with the most mortify- 
 ing contempt. 
 
 Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that 
 mean? 
 
 Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. 
 You'll find it come to something presently. 
 
 Sir Will. Yes, sir, I believe you'll be amazed, 
 if, after waiting some time in the ante-chamber, 
 after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the 
 passing servants, I was at last assured, that Sir 
 William Honeywood knew no such person, and I 
 must certainly have been imposed upon. 
 
 Lofty. Good ; let me die, very good. Ha ! ha! ha ! 
 
 H Pascal Paoli, the Corsican patriot. He came to England 
 in 1769. Squillaci, an Italian, was Prime Minister at Madrid.]
 
 276 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half 
 the goodness of it. 
 
 Lofty. You can't ? Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker. No, for the soul of me ; I think it was 
 as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from 
 one private gentleman to another. 
 
 Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the 
 message ? Why I was in the house at that very 
 time. Ha ! ha ! It was I that sent that very 
 answer to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker. Indeed ! How ! why ! 
 
 Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William 
 and me must be behind the curtain. A party has 
 many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side 
 with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the 
 mystery. 
 
 Croaker. And so it does indeed, and all my 
 suspicions are over. 
 
 Lofty. Your suspicions ! What then, you have 
 been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have 
 you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends, we 
 are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's 
 over ; I say, it's over ! 
 
 Croaker. As I hope for your favour, I did not 
 mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be dis- 
 composed. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds, sir, but I am discomposed, and 
 will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who 
 am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both 
 by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the 
 Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James's ; ' have I 
 been chaired at Wildman's, and a speaker at Mer- 
 it The St. Lames' s Chronicle.']
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 277 
 
 chant Tailor's Hall; have I had my hand to ad- 
 dresses, and my head in the print-shops, and talk 
 to me of suspects ! 
 
 Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What can 
 you have but asking pardon ? 
 
 Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects ! 
 Who am I ? To be used thus, have I paid court 
 to men in favour to serve my friends, the Lords of 
 the Treasury. Sir William Honeywood, and the 
 rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ! Who 
 am I, I say, who am I ? 
 
 Sir Will. Since, sir, you're so pressing for an 
 answer, I'll tell you who you are. A gentleman, 
 as well acquainted with politics, as with men in 
 power ; as well acquainted with persons of fashion, 
 as with modesty ; with Lords of the Treasury, as 
 with truth ; and with all, as you are with Sir 
 William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honey- 
 wood ! [Discovering Ms ensigns of the Bath. 
 
 Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! 
 
 Honeyw. Astonishment! my uncle ! (aside.) 
 
 Lofty. So then my confounded genius has been 
 all this time only leading me up to the garret, in 
 order to fling me out of the window. 
 
 Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these 
 your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been 
 dreaded by the ins and outs : you, who have had 
 your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up 
 in print-shops. If you were served right, you 
 should have your head stuck up in the pillory. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will, for, by the 
 Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks 
 at present.
 
 j 7 8 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Sir Will. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now 
 see how incapable this gentleman is of serving 5'ou, 
 and how little Miss Richland has to expect from 
 his influence. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it, and I can't 
 but say I have had some boding of it these ten 
 days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed 
 his affections on a lady of moderate fortune to be 
 satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of 
 another Mr. Lofty, in helping him to a better. 
 
 Sir Will. I approve your resolution, and here 
 they come, to receive a confirmation of your par- 
 don and consent. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, 
 Olivia. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Where's my husband ? Come, 
 come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here 
 has been to tell me the whole affair ; and, I say, 
 you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen 
 match, you know, my dear; and we never bad 
 any reason to repent of it. 
 
 Croaker. I wish we could both say so ; however, 
 this gentleman, Sir William Honey wood, has been 
 beforehand with you, in obtaining their pardon. 
 So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I 
 think we can tack them together without crossing 
 the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. 
 
 Leont. How blest, and unexpected ! What, 
 what can we say to such goodness ! But our 
 future obedience shall be the best reply. And, 
 as for this gentleman, to whom we owe — 
 
 Sir Will. Excuse mc, sir, if I interrupt your
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 279 
 
 thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. 
 {Turning to Honeywood.) Yes, sir, you are sur- 
 prised to see me ; and I own that a desire of 
 correcting your follies led me hither. I saw, 
 with indignation, the errors of a mind that only 
 sought applause from others ; that easiness of dis- 
 position, which, though inclined to the right, had 
 not courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with 
 regret those splendid errors, that still took name 
 from some neighbouring duty. Your charity, that 
 was but injustice ; your benevolence, that was but 
 weakness; and your friendship but credulity. I 
 saw, with regret, great talents and extensive learn- 
 ing only employed to add sprightliness to error, 
 and increase your perplexities. I saw your mind 
 with a thousand natural charms ; but the greatness 
 of its beauty served only to heighten my pity for 
 its prostitution. 
 
 Honcyiu. Cease to upbraid me, sir ; I have for 
 some time but too strongly felt the justice of your 
 reproaches. But there is one way still left me. 
 Yes, sir, I have determined, this very hour, to quit 
 forever a place where I have made myself the 
 voluntary slave of all ; and to seek among strangers 
 that fortitude which may give strength to the mind, 
 and marshal all its dissipated virtues. Yet, ere I 
 depart, permit me to solicit favour for this gentle- 
 man; who, notwithstanding what has happened, 
 has laid me under the most signal obligations. 
 Mr. Lofty — 
 
 Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a 
 reformation, as well as you. I now begin to find 
 that the man who first invented the art of speaking
 
 2Go PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 truth was a much cunninger fellow than I thought 
 him. And to prove that I design to speak truth 
 for the future, I must now assure you that you owe 
 your late enlargement to another ; as, upon my 
 soul, I had no hand in the matter. So now, if 
 any of the company has a mind for preferment, he 
 may take my place. I'm determined to resign. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Honeyn.ii. How have I been deceived ! 
 
 Sir Will. No, sir, you have been obliged to a 
 kinder, fairer friend for that favour. To Miss 
 Richland. Would she complete our joy, and 
 make the man she has honoured by her friend- 
 ship happy in her love, I should then forget all, 
 and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kins- 
 man can make me. 
 
 Miss Rich. After what is past, it would be but 
 affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will 
 own an attachment, which, I find, was more than 
 friendship. And if my entreaties cannot alter his 
 resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my 
 hand has not power to detain him. 
 
 [Giving her hand. 
 
 Honeyiv. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all 
 this ? How express my happiness, my gratitude ? 
 A moment like this over-pays an age of apprehen- 
 sion ! 
 
 Croaker. Well, now I see content in eveiy face ; 
 but Heaven send we be all better this day three 
 months. 
 
 Sir Will. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 
 yourself. He who seeks only for applause from 
 without, has all his happiness in another's keeping.
 
 THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAM. 2 8i 
 
 Honeyw. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive 
 my errors. My vanity, in attempting to please all, 
 by fearing to offend any. My meanness in approv- 
 ing folly, lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, 
 therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity 
 for real distress ; my friendship for true merit, and 
 my love for her, who first taught me what it is to 
 be happy.
 
 EPILOGUE 1 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. 15ULKLEY. 
 
 S puffing quacks some caitiff wretch pro- 
 cure 
 To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought 
 a cure : 
 
 Thus on the stage, our playwrights still depend 
 For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend, 
 Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
 And makes full many a bitter pill go down. 
 Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 
 And teas'd each rhyming friend to help him out. 
 An Epilogue, things can't go on without it ; 
 It could not fail, would you but set about it. 
 Young man, cries one (a bard laid up in clover) 
 Alas, young man, my writing days are over ; 
 Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; 
 Your brother Doctor there, perhaps may try. 
 What I ! dear sir, the Doctor interposes, 
 
 1 The Author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a 
 Friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very- 
 last hour. What is here offered, owes all its success to the 
 graceful manner of the Actress who spoke it.
 
 EPILOGUE. 283 
 
 What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ? 
 No, no, I've other contests to maintain ; 
 To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane.' 
 Go, ask your manager 2 — Who, me ? your pardon ; 
 Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden. 
 Our Author's friends, thus plac'd at happy dis- 
 tance, 
 Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. 
 As some unhappy wight, at some new play, 
 At the Pit door stands elbowing away, 
 While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 
 lie eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug, 
 His simpering friends with pleasure in their eyes, 
 Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
 lie nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; 
 But not a soul will budge to give him place. 
 Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform 
 To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, 3 
 Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 
 And be each critic the Good-Natur'd Man. 
 
 [1 A reference to the pending quarrel between the Fellows 
 and Licentiates of the College of Physicians in Warwick 
 Lane, respecting the exclusion of some of the Licentiates 
 from Fellowships.] 
 
 [ 2 George Colman, the Elder.] 
 
 P King Lear, Act III. sc. 4.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 *^*£*
 
 [She Stoof>s to Conquer was produced at Covent Garden on 
 Monday, the 15th March, 1773. It was played twelve times 
 before the conclusion of the season (31st May), the tenth 
 representation (5th May) being commanded by the King 
 and Queen. On the 26th March it was published in octavo 
 by Francis Newbery, at the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard, 
 with the following title :—S/ie Stoops to Conquer: or, The 
 mistakes of a Night. A Comedy. As it is acted at the 
 Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden. Written by Doctor 
 Goldsmith. The price was one shilling and sixpence. The 
 present reprint is from the fourth edition which appeared in 
 the same year as the first.]
 
 TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Y inscribing this slight performance to 
 you, I do not mean so much to compli- 
 ment you as myself. It may do me 
 ^ some honour to inform the public, that 
 I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It 
 may serve the interests of mankind also to inform 
 them, that the greatest wit may be found in a 
 character, without impairing the most unaffected 
 piety. 
 
 I have, particularly, reason to thank you for 
 your partiality to this performance. 1 The under- 
 taking a comedy, not merely sentimental, was 
 very dangerous 2 ; and Mr. Colman, who saw this 
 piece in its various stages, always thought it so. 
 However, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and, 
 
 [1 Johnson had throughout befriended the play, and 
 had been mainly instrumental in inducing Colman to pro- 
 duce it.] 
 
 [- See Introduction, vol. i, p. xxv.]
 
 288 DEDICA TION. 
 
 though it was necessarily delayed till late in the 
 Season, 1 I have every reason to be grateful. 
 I am, dear sir, 
 
 Your most sincere friend 
 And admirer, 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 f 1 I.e.— When, owing to holidays and actors' benefits, 
 there could not be many representations.]
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 EY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 
 
 Enter Mr. WOODWARD, 1 dressed in black, and 
 holding a Handkerchief to his Eyes. 
 
 EXCUSE me, sirs, I pray — I can't yet 
 speak — 
 I'm crying now — and have been all the 
 week ! 
 
 Tis not alone this mourning suit, good masters ; 2 
 Pve that -within — for which there are no plasters ! 
 Pray would you know the reason why I'm crying ? 
 The Comic muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! 
 And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
 For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop : 
 I am undone, that's all — shall lose my bread — 
 I'd rather, but that's nothing — lose my head. 
 When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
 
 [1 Woodward had no part in the piece. He refused " Tony 
 Lumpkin," which fell to Quick, who had played the " Pobt- 
 boy " in the Good-Natur'd Man.] 
 
 t 2 Hamlet, Act I. sc. 2.] 
 
 U
 
 29 o PROLOGUE. 
 
 Shulcr and / shall be chief mourners here. 
 To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, 
 Who deals in sentimentals will succeed ! 
 Poor Ned and / are dead to all intents, 
 We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments ! 
 Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, 
 We now and then take down a hearty cup. 
 What shall we do ? — If Comedy forsake us ! 
 They'll turn us out, and no one else will take 
 
 us, 
 But why can't I be moral ? — Let me try — 
 My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye — 
 With a sententious look, that nothing means 
 (Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes), 
 Thus I begin — All is not gold that glitters, 
 Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters. 
 When ignorance enters, folly is at hand ; 
 Learning is better far than house and land. 
 Let not your virtue trip, zvho trips may stumble, 
 And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble. 
 
 I give it up — morals won't do for me ; 
 To make you laugh I must play tragedy. 
 One hope remains — hearing the maid was ill, 
 A doctor comes this night to show his skill. 
 To cheer her heart, and give your muscles 
 
 motion, 
 He in five draughts prepar'd, presents a potion : 
 A kind of magic charm — for be assur'd, 
 If you will swalloiv it, the maid is cur'd. 
 But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, 
 If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! 
 This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, 
 No poisonous drugs are mix'd in what he gives j
 
 PROLOGUE. 291 
 
 Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree ; 
 If not, within he will receive no fee ! 
 The college you, must his pretentions back, 
 Pronounce him regular, or dub him quack.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON^. 1 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Sir Charles Marlow, 
 
 
 Mr. Gardner. 
 
 Young Marlow (his 
 
 Son) 
 
 Mr. Lewes. 
 
 Hardcastle, 
 
 
 Mr. Shuter. 
 
 Hastings, 
 
 
 Mr. Dubellamy. 
 
 Tony Lumpkin, 
 
 
 Mr. Quick. 
 
 Diggory, 
 
 
 Mr. Saunders. 
 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle, 
 
 
 Mrs. Green. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle, 
 
 
 Mrs. Bulkley. 
 
 Miss Neville, Mrs. Kniveton. 
 
 Maid, Miss Willems. 
 
 Landlords, Servants, Sfc, &c. 
 
 [ l The cast given is that of the piece as first acted.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 1 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — A Chamber in an old-fashioned House. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and 
 
 Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 VOW, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very 
 particular. Is there a creature in the 
 whole country, but ourselves, that does 
 not take a trip to town now and then, 
 to rub off the rust a little? There's the two Miss 
 H°Sg s > anc l our neighbour, Mrs. Grigsby, go to 
 take a month's polishing every winter. 
 
 P Mitford suggested to Mr. Forster that the first title 
 originated in Dryden's — 
 
 " But kneels to conquer, and but stoops to rise." 
 The second title was originally the only one ; but was re- 
 jected as undignified. Reynolds wanted to christen the 
 play The Belle's Stratagem, a name afterwards used by 
 Mrs. Cowley. The Old House a New Inn was also debated.]
 
 2 9 4 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hard. Ky, and bring back vanity and affecta- 
 tion to last them the whole year. I wonder why 
 London cannot keep its own fools at home. In 
 my time, the follies of the town crept slowly 
 among us, but now they travel faster than a stage- 
 coach. Its fopperies come down, not only as 
 inside passengers, but in the very basket. 1 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times, 
 indeed ; you have been telling us of them for 
 many a long year. Here we live in an old rum- 
 bling mansion, that looks for all the world like an 
 inn, but that we never see company. Our best 
 visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, 
 and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master : 
 And all our entertainment your old stories of 
 Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I 
 hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 
 
 Hard. And I love it. I love everything that's 
 old : old friends, old times, old manners, old 
 books, old wine ; and, I believe, Dorothy [taking 
 her hand), you'll own I have been pretty fond of 
 an old wife. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for 
 ever at your Dorothys and your old wifes. You 
 may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise 
 you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more 
 than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and 
 make money of that. 
 
 [1 A large wicker receptacle fixed on the kind axle-tree, 
 sometimes used for luggage, sometimes for passengers, 
 occasionally for both. See Hogarth's Country Jim-Yard, 
 
 J747-1
 
 she sroors to conquer. 295 
 
 Hard. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty, 
 makes just fifty and seven! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle : I was 
 but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, 
 that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; 
 and he's not come to years of discretion yet. 
 
 Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. 
 Ay, you have taught him finely ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. No matter, Tony Lumpkin has a 
 good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. 
 I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend 
 fifteen hundred a year. 
 
 Hard. Learning, quotha ! A mere composition 
 of tricks and mischief ! 
 
 Airs. Hard. Humour, my dear : nothing but 
 humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow 
 the boy a little humour. 
 
 Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond ! If 
 burning the footmen's shoes, frightening the maids, 
 and worrying the kittens, be humour, he has it. 
 It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the 
 back of my chair, and when I went to make a 
 bow, I popped mybald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face ! ' 
 Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame ? The poor 
 boy was always too sickly to do any good. A 
 school would be his death. When he comes to be 
 a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's 
 Latin may do for him ? 
 
 Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle ! No, 
 no, the ale-house and the stable are the only 
 schools he'll ever go to ! 
 
 [1 A trick played on Goldsmith himself by Lord Clare's 
 daughter. (Forster's Life of GoMsmith, Ilk. iv., ch. 15, n.)l
 
 sg5 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Airs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor 
 boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long 
 among us. Anybody that looks in his face may 
 see he's consumptive. 
 
 Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
 symptoms. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 
 
 Hard. And truly, so am I ; for he sometimes 
 whoops like a speaking-trumpet— (Tony hallooing 
 behind the Scenes.) — O, there he goes — A very 
 consumptive figure, truly ! 
 
 Enter Tony, crossing the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are going, my charmer? 
 Won't you give papa and I a little of your com- 
 pany, lovey? 
 
 Tony. I'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay. 
 
 Airs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw 
 evening, my dear : You look most shockingly. 
 
 Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three 
 Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's 
 some fun going forward. 
 
 Hard. Ay ; the ale-house, the old place : I 
 thought so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows. 
 
 Tony. Not so low, neither. There's Dick 
 Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse 
 doctor, Little Aminadab that grinds the music 
 box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. 
 
 Airs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them 
 for one nitrht, at least.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 297 
 
 Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not 
 much mind ; but I can't abide to disappoint myself! 
 Mrs. Hard. {Detaining him.) You shan't go. 
 Tony. I will, I tell you. 
 Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't. 
 Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you or I. 
 
 [Exit hauling her out. 
 
 Hardcastle solus. 
 Hard. Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil 
 each other. But is not the whole age in a com- 
 bination to drive sense and discretion out of doors? 
 There's my pretty darling Kate ; the fashions of 
 the times have almost infected her too. By living 
 a year or two in town, she is as fond of gauze, and 
 French frippery, as the best of them. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! 
 Dressed out as my usual, my Kate ! Goodness ! 
 What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got 
 about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of 
 this age, that the indigent world could be clothed 
 out of the trimmings of the vain. 
 
 Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. 
 You allow me the morning to receive and pay 
 visits, and to dress in my own manner ; and in the 
 evening, I put on my housewife's dress, to please 
 you. 
 
 Hard. Well, remember, I insist on the terms of 
 our agreement ; and, by-the-bye, I believe I shall 
 have occasion to try your obedience this very 
 evening.
 
 2 9 8 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend 
 your meaning. 
 
 Hard. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I 
 expect the young gentleman I have chosen to 
 be your husband from town this very day. I 
 have his father's letter, in which he informs me 
 his son is set out, and that he intends to follow 
 himself shortly after. 
 
 Miss Hard. Indeed ! I wish I had known 
 something of this before. Bless me, how shall 
 I behave? It's a thousand to one I shan't like 
 him ; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a 
 thing of business, that I shall find no room for 
 friendship or esteem. 
 
 Hard. Depend upon it, child, I'll never control 
 your choice ; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have 
 pitched upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir 
 Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk 
 so often. The young gentleman has been bred a 
 scholar, and is designed for an employment in the 
 service of his country. I am told he's a man of 
 an excellent understanding. 
 
 Miss Hard. Is he ? 
 
 Hard. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. Young and brave. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm sure I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. And very handsome. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more {kissing 
 his hand), he's mine, I'll have him ! 
 
 Hard. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the 
 most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the 
 world.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 299 
 
 Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to death 
 again. That word reserved has undone all the 
 rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it 
 is said, always makes a suspicious husband. 
 
 Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides 
 in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. 
 It was the very feature in his character that first 
 struck me. 
 
 Miss Hard. He must have more striking features 
 to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so 
 young, so handsome, and so everything, as you 
 mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll have 
 him. 
 
 Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 
 It is more than an even wager, he may not have 
 you. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mor- 
 tify one so? — Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking 
 my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my 
 glass for its flattery. Set my cap to some newer 
 fashion, and look out for some less difficult ad- 
 mirer. 
 
 Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the meantime I'll 
 go prepare the servants for his reception ; as we 
 seldom see company, they want as much training 
 as a company of recruits the first day's muster. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle sola. 
 
 Miss Hard. Lud, this news of papa's puts me 
 
 all in a flutter. Young, handsome; these he put 
 
 last ; but I put them foremost. Sensible, good- 
 
 natur'd ; I like all that. But then reserved, and
 
 3 oo PLATS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 sheepish, that's much against him. Yet can't he 
 be cured of his timidity, by being taught to be 
 proud of his wife? Yes, and can't I— But I vow 
 I'm disposing of the husband before I have secured 
 the lover ! 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my 
 dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this 
 evening ? Is there anything whimsical about me ? 
 Is it one of my well-looking days, child? Am I 
 in face to-day ? 
 
 Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet, now I 
 look again — bless me ! — sure no accident has hap- 
 pened among the canary birds or the goldfishes ? 
 Has your brother or the cat been meddling? Or 
 has the last novel been too moving ? 
 
 Miss Hard. No ; nothing of all this. I have 
 been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have 
 been threatened with a lover! 
 
 Miss Neville. And his name 
 
 Miss Hard. Is Marlow. 
 
 Miss Neville. Indeed ! 
 
 Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend 
 of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never 
 asunder. I believe you must have seen him when 
 we lived in town. 
 
 Miss Hard. Never. 
 
 Miss Neville. He's a very singular character, I 
 assure you. Among women of reputation and 
 virtue, he is the modestest man alive ; but his ac- 
 quaintance give him a very different character
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 301 
 
 among creatures of another stamp : you understand 
 me? 
 
 Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed ! I shall 
 never be able to manage him. What shall I do ? 
 Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occur- 
 rences for success. But how goes on your own 
 affair, my dear ? Has my mother been courting 
 you for my brother Tony, as usual ? 
 
 Miss Neville. I have just come from one of our 
 agreeable icte-a-tCtes. She has been saying a 
 hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty 
 monster as the very pink of perfection. 
 
 Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she 
 actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no 
 small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole 
 management of it, I'm not surprised to see her un- 
 willing to let it go out of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 
 consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. 
 But, at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but 
 constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her 
 at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in 
 love with her son, and she never once dreams that 
 my affections are fixed upon another. 
 
 Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. 
 I could almost love him for hating you so. 
 
 Miss Neville. It is a good-natur'd creature at 
 bottom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married 
 to anybody but himself. But my aunt's bell rings 
 for our afternoon's walk through the improvements. 
 Allons. Courage is necessary, as our affairs are 
 critical.
 
 302 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Miss Hard. Would it were bed-time and all 
 were well. 1 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene. — An Alehouse Room. Several shabby 
 fellozvs, with punch and tobacco. Tony at the head 
 of the table, a little higher than the rest : a mallet 
 in his hand. 
 
 Omnes. Hurrea, hurrea, hurrea, bravo ! 
 
 First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. 
 The 'Squire is going to knock himself down for a 
 song. 
 
 Omnes. hy, a song, a song. 
 
 Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I 
 made upon this ale-house, the Three Pigeons. 
 
 Song. 
 Let school-masters puzzle their brain, 
 
 With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; 
 Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 
 
 Gives genus a belter discerning, 
 Let them brag of their Heathenish Gods, 
 
 Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians ; 
 Their Quis, and their Qucvs, and their Quods, 
 
 They're all but a parcel of Pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll ! 
 
 When Methodist preachers come down, 
 A -preaching that drinking is sinful, 
 
 [l I Henry IV. Act v. Sc. i.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 3°3 
 
 Til wager the rascals a crown, 
 
 They always preach best with a skinful. 
 
 But when you come down with your pence, 
 For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
 
 I'll leave it to all men of sense, 
 
 Hut you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll ! 
 
 Then come, put the jorum about, 
 
 And let us be merry and clever, 
 Our hearts and our liquors are stout, 
 
 Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 
 Let some cry tip "woodcock or hare, 
 
 Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons 
 But of all the birds in the air, 
 
 Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll ! 
 
 Omncs. Bravo, bravo ! 
 
 First Fellow. The 'Squire has got spunk in him. 
 
 Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays 
 he never gives us nothing that's low. l 
 
 Third Felloiv. damn anything that's low, I 
 cannot bear it ! 
 
 Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel 
 thing at any time. If so be that a gentleman bees 
 in a concatenation accordingly. 
 
 Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, Master 
 
 [1 Goldsmith, Fielding, and other contemporary humour- 
 ists much objected to this particular form of depreciation on 
 the part of the sentimentalists. In the whole of this dis- 
 cussion, the author, no doubt, had in mind the rejection of the 
 Bailiff scene in the Cood-Natur'd JSlau.\
 
 304 rLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance 
 a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. 
 May this be my poison if my bear ever dances but 
 to the very genteelest of tunes. Water Parted, 1 
 or the minuet in Ariadne. 2 
 
 Second Fellow. What a pity it is the 'Squire is 
 not come to his own. It would be well for all the 
 publicans within ten miles round of him. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd 
 then show what it was to keep choice of company. 
 
 Second Felloiv. O, he takes after his own father 
 for that. To be sure, old 'Squire Lumpkin was the 
 finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For 
 winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for 
 a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It 
 was a saying in the place, that he kept the best 
 horses, dogs, and girls in the whole county. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age I'll be no 
 bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of 
 Bet Bouncer and the miller's grey mare to begin 
 with. But come, my boys, drink about and be 
 merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, 
 what's the matter? 
 
 Enter Landlord. 
 
 Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post- 
 chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo' 
 the forest ; and they are talking something about 
 Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be 
 
 [' The song of Arbaccs in Arnc's Artaxcr.xcs, 1762.] 
 [ 2 By Handel. The minuet came at the end of the over- 
 ture, and is said lo have been the best thing in the opera.]
 
 she sroors to conquer. 303 
 
 the gentleman that's coming down to court my 
 sister. Do they seem to be Londoners ? 
 
 Landloi-d. I believe they may. They look 
 woundily like Frenchmen. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and 
 I'll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Land- 
 lord.) Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good 
 enough company for you, step down for a moment, 
 and I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. 
 
 {Exeunt Mob. 
 Tony solus. 
 
 Tony. Father-in-law has been calling me whelp, 
 and hound, this half year. Now, if I pleased, I 
 could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. 
 But then I'm afraid — afraid of what? I shall soon 
 be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him 
 frighten me out of that if he can ! 
 
 Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and 
 Hastings. 
 
 Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day 
 have we had of it ! We were told it was but forty 
 miles across the country, and we have come above 
 threescore ! 
 
 Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unaccount- 
 able reserve of yours, that would not let us enquire 
 more frequently on the way. 
 
 Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to 
 lay myself under an obligation to every one I 
 meet ; and often stand the chance of an unman- 
 nerly answer. 
 
 Hastings. At present, however, we are not 
 likely to receive any answer. 
 
 x
 
 3°6 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you 
 have been enquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in 
 these parts. Do you know what part of the 
 country you are in ? 
 
 Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank 
 you for information. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came ? 
 
 Hastings. No, sir, but if you can inform us 
 
 Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the 
 road you are going, nor where you are, nor the 
 road you came, the first thing I have to inform is, 
 that — you have lost your way. 
 
 Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 1 
 
 Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to 
 ask the place from whence you came ? 
 
 Marlow. That's not necessary towards directing 
 us where we are to go. 
 
 Tony. No offence ; but question for question is 
 all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this 
 same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, 
 whimsical fellow with an ugly face ; a daughter, 
 and a pretty son ? 
 
 Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman, but 
 he has the family you mention. 
 
 Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, 
 talkative maypole The son, a pretty, well- 
 bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of ! 
 
 Marlow. Our information differs in this. The 
 daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful ; the 
 son, an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at 
 his mother's apron-string. 
 
 Tony. Ile-he-hem — then gentlemen, all I have 
 [1 Hamlet, Act I., Sc. 5.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 3°7 
 
 to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hard- 
 castle's house this night, I believe. 
 
 Hastings. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, 
 dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the 
 way to Mr. Hardcastle's. (Winking upon the 
 Landlord.) Mr. Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh, 
 you understand me. 
 
 Landlord. Master Hardcastle's ! Lack-a-daisy, 
 my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong ! 
 When you came to the bottom of the hill, you 
 should have crossed down Squash Lane. 
 
 Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane ! 
 
 Landlord. Then you were to keep straight for- 
 ward, until you came to four roads. 
 
 Marlow. Come to where four roads meet ! 
 
 Tony. Ay, but you must be sure to take only 
 one of them. 
 
 MarlocO. O, sir, you're facetious ! 
 
 Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are to go 
 sideways till you come upon Crack-skull common : 
 there you must look sharp for the track of the 
 wheel, and go forward, till you come to farmer 
 Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, 
 you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, 
 and then to the right about again, till you find out 
 the old mill 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find 
 out the longitude ! 1 
 
 P This was a popular inquiry in the last century, owing 
 to the reward of ^20,000 offered by Parliament in 1714 for 
 the discovery of a means of accurately ascertaining the 
 longitude at sea. The father of Johnson's friend Miss
 
 3o8 PLAVS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hastings. What's to be done, Marlow ? 
 
 Marlow. This house promises but a poor re- 
 ception, though, perhaps, the landlord can accom- 
 modate us. 
 
 Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spare 
 bed in the whole house. 
 
 Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up 
 by three lodgers already. {After a pause, in which 
 the rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it. Don't 
 you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate 
 
 the gentlemen by the fire-side, with three 
 
 chairs and a bolster? 
 
 Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 
 
 Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a 
 bolster. 
 
 Tony. You do, do you ? — then let me see— 
 what — if you go on a mile further, to the Buck's 
 Head ; the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of 
 the best inns in the whole county ? 
 
 Hastings. Oh, oh ! so we have escaped an 
 adventure for this night, however. 
 
 Landlord {apart to Tony). Sure, you ben't 
 sending them to your father's as an inn, be you ? ' 
 
 Tony. Mum, you fool, you. Let them find that 
 out. {To them.) You have only to keep on 
 straight forward, till you come to a large old house 
 
 Williams, is said by Boswell to have made " many ingenious 
 advances " in this direction ; but the reward was finally 
 gained by John Harrison.] 
 
 P This was the recollection of a trick played upon Gold- 
 smith himself in his youth. Enquiring at Ardagh, with 
 boyish importance, for the " best house " (i.e. inn), he was 
 directed by a practical joker to the residence of the local 
 magnate, Squire Featherston.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 309 
 
 by the roadside. You'll see a pair of large horns 
 over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the 
 yard, and call stoutly about you. 
 
 Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The 
 servants can't miss the way ? 
 
 Tony. No, no : But I tell you though, the 
 landlord is rich, and going to leave off business ; 
 so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving 
 your presence, he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving 
 you his company, and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll 
 persuade you that his mother was an alderman, 
 and his aunt a justice of the peace ! 
 
 Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; 
 but 'a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the 
 whole country. 
 
 Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we 
 shall want no further connection. We are to turn 
 to the right, did you say ? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; straight forward. I'll just step 
 myself, and show you a piece of the way. ( To the 
 Landlord.) Mum. 
 
 Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, 
 
 pleasant damned mischievous son of a whore 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT.
 
 3'o PLAVS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene. — An old-fashioned House. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four 
 awkivard Servants. 
 
 Hardcastle. 
 [IELL, I hope you're perfect in the table 
 exercise I have been teaching you these 
 three days. You all know your posts 
 and your places, and can show that 
 you have been used to good company, without 
 ever stirring from home. 
 Omnes. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hard. When company comes, you are not to 
 pop out and stare, and then run in again, like 
 frightened rabbits in a warren. 
 Omnes. No, no. 
 
 Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from 
 the barn are to make a show at the side-table ; 
 and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the 
 plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. 
 But you're not to stand so, with your hands in 
 your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, 
 Roger ; and from your head, you blockhead, you. 
 See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a 
 little too sliif, indeed, but that's no great matter. 
 Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 311 
 
 to hold my hands this way, when I was upon 
 drill for the militia. And so being upon drill 
 
 Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. 
 You must be all attention to the guests. You 
 must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; you 
 must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; you 
 must see us eat, and not think of eating. 
 
 Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that's par- 
 fectly impossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating 
 going forward, ecod, he's always wishing for a 
 mouthful himself. 
 
 Hard. Blockhead ! Is not a bellyful in the 
 kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlour? 
 Stay your stomach with that reflection. 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make 
 a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef 
 in the pantry. 
 
 Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, if 
 I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story 
 at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as 
 if you made part of the company. 
 
 Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell 
 the story of Ould Grouse in the gun-room : l I 
 can't help laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for 
 the soul of me ! We have laughed at that these 
 twenty years — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. 
 Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that — 
 but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one 
 of the company should call for a glass of wine 
 
 [1 This story has escaped identification, like "Taffy in 
 the Sedan Chair" in the Citizen 0/ the Wot Id. \
 
 31a PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 how will you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if you 
 please (to Diggory) — Eh, why don't you move? 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have 
 courage till I see the eatables and drinkables 
 brought upo' the table, and then I'm as bauld as 
 a lion. 
 
 Hard. What, will nobody move ? 
 
 First Servant. Em not to leave this pleace. 
 
 Second Serz'ant. Em sure it's no pleace of mine. 
 
 Third Servant. Nor mine, for sartain. 
 
 Diggory. Wauns, and Em sure it canna be mine. 
 
 Hard. You numskulls ! and so while, like 
 your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the 
 guests must be starved. O, you dunces ! I find I 
 must begin all over again. — But don't I hear a 
 coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you 
 blockheads ! Ell go in the meantime and give my 
 old friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. 
 
 [Exit Hardcastle. 
 
 Diggory. By the elevens, my pleace is gone 
 quite out of my head ! 
 
 Roger. I know that my pleace is to be every- 
 where ! 
 
 First Servant. Where the devil is mine? 
 
 Second Servant. My pleace is to be nowhere at 
 all ; and so I ze go about my business ! 
 
 [Exeunt Servants, running about as 
 ij frighted, different toays. 
 
 Enter Servant with Candles, showing in 
 Marlow and Hastings. 
 Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. 
 This way.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 3 i 3 
 
 Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, 
 welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a 
 clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a 
 very well-looking house ; antique but credit- 
 able. 
 
 Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. 
 Having first ruined the master by good house- 
 keeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as 
 an inn. 
 
 Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be 
 taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen 
 a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, 
 though not actually put in the bill, inflame a 
 reckoning confoundedly. 
 
 Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all 
 places. The only difference is, that in good inns, 
 you pay dearly for luxuries ; in bad inns, you are 
 fleeced and starved. 
 
 Hastings. You have lived pretty much among 
 them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that 
 you who have seen so much of the world, with 
 your natural good sense, and your many oppor- 
 tunities, could never yet acquire a requisite share 
 of assurance. 
 
 Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But tell 
 me, George, where could I have learned that 
 assurance you talk of? My life has been chiefly 
 spent in a college, or an inn, in seclusion from 
 that lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach 
 men confidence. I don't know that I was ever 
 familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman 
 — except my mother— But among females of 
 another class, you know —
 
 3 i 4 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hastings. Ay, among them you are impudent 
 enough of all conscience ! 
 
 Marlow. They are of us, you know. 
 
 Hastings. But in the company of women of 
 reputation I never saw such an idiot, such a 
 trembler ; you look for all the world as if you 
 wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room. 
 
 Marlow. Why, man, that's because I do want to 
 steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed 
 a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at 
 any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance 
 from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my 
 resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit 
 modesty, but I'll be hanged it a modest man can 
 ever counterfeit impudence. 
 
 Hastings. If you could but say half the fine 
 things to them that I have heard you lavish upon 
 the barmaid of an inn, or even a college bed- 
 maker — 
 
 Marlow. Why, George, I can't say fine things 
 to them. They freeze, they petrify me. They 
 may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or 
 some such bagatelle. But to me, a modest 
 woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most 
 tremendous object of the whole creation. 
 
 Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, 
 how can you ever expect to marry ! 
 
 Marlow. Never, unless, as among kings and 
 princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. 
 If, indeed, like an Eastern bridegroom, one were 
 to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it 
 might be endured. But to go through all the 
 terrors of a formal courtship, together with the
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 315 
 
 episode of aunts, grandmothers and cousins, and at 
 last to blurt out the broad staring question of, 
 madam, will you marry me? No, no, that's a 
 strain much above me, I assure you ! 
 
 Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend 
 behaving to the lady you are come down to visit 
 at the request of your father ? 
 
 Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow 
 very low. Answer yes, or no, to all her demands 
 — But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to 
 look in her face, till I see my father's again. 
 
 Hastings. I'm surprised that one who is so 
 warm a friend can be so cool a lover. 
 
 i\Iarl<nv. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my 
 chief inducement down was to be instrumental in 
 forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss 
 Neville loves you, the family don't know you, as 
 my friend you are sure of a reception, and let 
 honour do the rest. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Marlow ! Bat I'll suppress 
 the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking 
 to cany off a fortune, you should be the last man 
 in the world I would apply to for assistance. But 
 Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is 
 mine, both from her deceased father's consent, 
 and her own inclination. 
 
 jlfarloTV. Happy man ! You have talents and 
 art to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to 
 adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only 
 part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, 
 and this awkward prepossessing visage of mine, 
 can never permit me to soar above the reach of a 
 milliner's apprentice, or one of the duchesses of
 
 3 i6 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Drury-lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt 
 
 us. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
 welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you're 
 heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to 
 receive my friends with my back to the fire. I 
 like to give them a hearty reception in the old 
 style at my gate. I like to see their horses and 
 trunks taken care of. 
 
 Marlow. [aside.) He has got our names from 
 the servants already. (To him.) We approve 
 your caution and hospitality, sir. (71? Hastings.) 
 I have been thinking, George, of changing our 
 travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown 
 confoundedly ashamed of mine. 
 
 Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no cere- 
 mony in this house. 
 
 Hastings. I fancy, George, you're right : the 
 first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the 
 campaign with the white and gold. 
 
 Hard. Mr. Marlow— Mr. Hastings — gentlemen 
 — pray be under no constraint in this house. This 
 is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as 
 you please here. 
 
 Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the campaign 
 too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition be- 
 fore it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery 
 to secure a retreat. 
 
 Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, 
 puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, 
 when we went to besiege Denain. He first sum- 
 moned the garrison
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 3*7 
 
 Marlow. Don't you think the venire (Tor waist- 
 coat will do with the plain brown ? 
 
 Hani. lie first summoned the garrison, which 
 might consist of about five thousand men 
 
 Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix 
 but very poorly. 
 
 Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, 
 he summoned the garrison, which might consist of 
 about five thousand men 
 
 Marlow. The girls like finery. 
 
 Hard. Which might consist of about five thou- 
 sand men, well appointed with stores, ammuni- 
 tion, and other implements of war. "Now," says 
 the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that 
 stood next to him — you must have heard of 
 George Brooks ; "I'll pawn my Dukedom," says 
 he, "but I take that garrison without spilling a 
 drop of blood ! " So 
 
 Marloiv. What, my good friend, if you gave us 
 a glass of punch in the meantime, it would help us 
 to carry on the siege with vigour. 
 
 Hard. Punch, sir! {Aside.) This is the 
 
 most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met 
 with ! 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, punch ! A glass of warm 
 punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. 
 This is Liberty Hall, you know. 
 
 Hard. Here's cup, sir. 
 
 Marlo-cO {aside). So this fellow, in his Liberty 
 Hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 
 
 Hard, {taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it to 
 your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, 
 and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tole-
 
 3i& FLATS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 rable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? 
 Here, Mr. Marlow, here is our better acquaintance ! 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 Marlow (aside). A very impudent fellow this ! 
 but he's a character, and I'll humour him a little. 
 Sir, my service to you. [Drinks. 
 
 Hustings (aside). I see this fellow wants to give 
 us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, 
 before he has learned to be a gentleman. 
 
 Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my 
 old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of busi- 
 ness in this part of the country. Warm work, now 
 and then, at elections, I suppose ? 
 
 Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work 
 over. Since our betters have hit upon the expe- 
 dient of electing each other, there's no business 
 for us that sell ale. 
 
 Hastings. So, then you have no turn for poli- 
 tics, I find. 
 
 Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, 
 indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of 
 government, like other people ; but, finding my- 
 self every day grow more angry, and the govern- 
 ment growing no better, I left it to mend itself. 
 Since that, I no more trouble my head about 
 Hcyder Ally, 1 or Ally Cazan," than about Ally 
 Croaker.* Sir, my service to you. 
 
 [ L The famous Sultan of Mysore, 1717-82.] 
 
 [- Cossim Ali Cawn, Subah of Bengal.] 
 
 [ 3 "Ally Croaker " is the Irish ditty beginning — 
 
 " There lived a man in Ballinacrasy 
 
 Who wanted a wife to make him unasy." 
 
 It was described as " a new Song" in 1753.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 319 
 
 Hastings. So that, with eating above stairs, and 
 drinking below, with receiving your friends within, 
 andamusing them without, you lead a good pleasant 
 bustling life of it. 
 
 Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. 
 Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in 
 this very parlour. 
 
 Marlow {After drinking). And you have an 
 argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than 
 any in Westminster Hall. 
 
 Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little 
 philosophy. 
 
 Marlow {aside). Well, this is the first time I 
 ever heard of an innkeeper's philosophy. 
 
 Hastings. So then, like an experienced general, 
 you attack them on every quarter. If you find 
 their reason manageable, you attack it with your 
 philosophy ; if you find they have no reason, you 
 attack them with this. Here's your health, my 
 philosopher. {Drinks. 
 
 Hard. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! 
 Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince 
 Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle 
 of Belgrade. You shall hear. 
 
 Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I 
 believe it's almost time to talk about supper. 
 What has your philosophy got in the house for 
 supper ? 
 
 Hard. For supper, sir ! {Aside.) Was ever 
 
 such a request to a man in his own house ! 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel 
 an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night 
 in the larder, I promise you.
 
 3 2o PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hard, {aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never 
 my eyes beheld. {To him.) Why, really, sir, 
 as for supper I can't well tell. My Dorothy, 
 and the cook maid, settle these things between 
 them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. 
 
 Marloiv. You do, do you ? 
 
 Hard. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are 
 in actual consultation upon what's for supper this 
 moment in the kitchen. 
 
 Marloiu. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of 
 their privy council. It's a way I have got. When 
 I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. 
 Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope, sir. 
 
 Hard. O, no, sir, none in the least ; yet, I don't 
 know how : our Bridget, the cook maid, is not 
 very communicative upon these occasions. Should 
 we send for her, she might scold us all out of the 
 house. 
 
 Hastings. Let's see your list of the larder, then. 
 I ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite 
 to my bill of fare. 
 
 Marlow { To 1 1 ardc asti.e, who looks at them :ci/k 
 surprise). Sir, he's very right, and it's my way, too. 
 Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. 
 Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's 
 supper. I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, 
 Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel 
 Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was 
 sure of his supper till he had eaten it. 
 
 Hastings {aside). All upon the high ropes ! His 
 uncle a colonel ! We shall soon hear of his mother 
 being a justice of peace. But let's hear the bill 
 of fare.
 
 SttE STOOPS TO CONQUER. y>t 
 
 Marlow {Perusing). What's here? For the 
 first course ; for the second course ; for the desert. 
 The devil, sir, do you think we have brought 
 down the whole Joiners' Company, or the Cor- 
 poration of Bedford, to eat up such a supper ? Two 
 or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. 
 
 Hastings. But let's hear it. 
 
 Marlow [Reading). For the first course at the 
 top, a pig, and prune sauce. 
 
 Hastings. Damn your pig, I say ! 
 
 Marlow. And damn your prune sauce, say I ! 
 
 Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are 
 hungry, pig, with prune sauce, is very good eating. 
 
 Marlow. At the bottom, a calfs tongue and 
 brains. 
 
 Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my 
 good sir ; I don't like them. 
 
 Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by 
 themselves, I do. 
 
 Hard, (aside.) Their impudence confounds me. 
 (To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make 
 what alterations you please. Is there anything 
 else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen ? 
 
 Marlow. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and 
 sausages, a florentine, a shaking pudding, and a 
 dish of tiff — taff — taffety cream ! 
 
 Hastings. Confound your made dishes, I shall 
 be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and 
 yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table, 
 I'm for plain eating. 
 
 Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing 
 you like, but if there be anything you have a par- 
 ticular fancy to 
 
 Y
 
 322 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Marlow. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is sO 
 exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as 
 another. Send us what you please. So much 
 for supper. And now to see that our beds are 
 aired, and properly taken care of. 
 
 Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. 
 You shall not stir a step. 
 
 Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, 
 you must excuse me, I always look to these things 
 myself. 
 
 Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself 
 easy on that head. 
 
 Marlow. You see I'm resolved on it. — {Aside.) 
 A very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with. 
 
 Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend 
 you. — (Aside.) This may be modern modesty, 
 but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned 
 impudence. [Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle. 
 
 Hastings solus. 
 Hastings. So I find this fellow's civilities begin 
 to grow troublesome. But who can be angry at 
 those assiduities which are meant to please him ? 
 Ha ! what do I see ! Miss Neville, by all that's 
 happy ! 
 
 Enter Miss NEVILLE. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear Hastings ! To what 
 unexpected good fortune ? to what accident am I 
 to ascribe this happy meeting? 
 
 Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, 
 as I could never have hoped to meet my dearest 
 Constance at an inn.
 
 SHE STOOrS TO CONQUER. 323 
 
 Miss Neville. An inn ! sure you mistake ! my 
 aunt, my guardian, lives here. What could in- 
 duce you to think this house an inn? 
 
 Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom 
 I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an 
 inn, I assure you. A young fellow whom we 
 accidentally met at a house hard by directed us 
 hither. 
 
 Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my 
 hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard 
 me talk so often, ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for 
 you ? He of whom I have such just apprehen- 
 sions? 
 
 Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from 
 him, I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew 
 how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it 
 too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and 
 actually begins to think she has made a conquest. 
 
 Hastings. Thou dear dissembler ! You must 
 know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy 
 opportunity of my friend's visit here to get admit- 
 tance into the family. The horses that carried us 
 down are now fatigued with their journey, but 
 they'll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest 
 girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall 
 soon be landed in France, where even among 
 slaves the laws of marriage are respected. 1 
 
 Miss Neville. I have often told you, that though 
 
 [! This was regarded as an oblique allusion to the mar- 
 riage of the Duke of Gloucester with Lady Waldegrave, 
 which was one of the causes of the restrictive "Royal 
 Marriage Act" of 1772.]
 
 324 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little 
 fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest part 
 of it was left me by my uncle, the India Director, 
 and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for 
 some time persuading my aunt to let me wear 
 them. I fancy I'm very near succeeding. The 
 instant they are put into my possession you shall 
 find me ready to make them and myself yours. 
 
 Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your person is 
 all I desire. In the meantime, my friend Marlow 
 must not be let into his mistake. I know the 
 strange reserve of his temper is such, that if 
 abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit 
 the house before our plan was ripe for execution. 
 
 Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him in the 
 deception ? Miss Hardcastle is just returned from 
 walking ; what if we still continue to deceive him ? 
 — This, this way [ They confer. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. The assiduities of these good people 
 tease me beyond bearing. My host seems to think 
 it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he claps 
 not only himself, but his old-fashioned wife on my 
 back. They talk of coming to sup with us, too ; 
 and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet 
 through all the rest of the family. — What have we 
 got here? — 
 
 Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me congratu- 
 late you ! — The most fortunate accident ! — Who 
 do you think is just alighted ? 
 
 Marlow. Cannot guess. 
 
 Hastings. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 323 
 
 and Miss Neville. Give me leaye to introduce 
 Miss Constance Neville to your acquaintance. 
 Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they 
 called, on their return to take fresh horses, here. 
 Miss Hardcastle has just stept into the next room, 
 and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it lucky ? 
 eh! 
 
 Marlow {aside). I have just been mortified 
 enough of all conscience, and here comes some- 
 thing to complete my embarrassment. 
 
 Hastings. Well ! but wasn't it the most for- 
 tunate thing in the world ? 
 
 Marlow. Oh! yes. Very fortunate — a most 
 
 joyful encounter But our dresses, George, you 
 
 know, are in disorder What if we should post- 
 pone the happiness till to-morrow ? To-morrow 
 
 at her own house It will be every bit as con- 
 venient And rather more respectful To- 
 morrow let it be. {Offering to go. 
 Miss Neville. By no means, sir. Your cere- 
 mony will displease her. The disorder of your 
 dress will shew the ardour of your impatience. 
 Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will 
 permit you to see her. 
 
 Marlow. O ! the devil ! how shall I support it ? 
 Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You 
 are to assist me, you know. I shall be con- 
 foundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take 
 courage. Hem ! 
 
 Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it's but the first plunge, 
 and all's over. She's but a woman, you know. 
 
 Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread 
 most to encounter !
 
 i?6 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle, as relumed from 
 walking, a Bonnet, &>c. 
 
 Bastings [introducing them). Miss Plardcastle, 
 Mr. Marlow, I'm proud of bringing two persons 
 of such merit together, that only want to know, to 
 esteem each other. 
 
 Miss Hard, (aside.) Now, for meeting my 
 modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite 
 in his own manner. (After a pause, in which he 
 appears very uneasy and disconcerted.) I'm glad 
 
 of your safe arrival, sir I'm told you had some 
 
 accidents by the way. 
 
 Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had 
 some. Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but 
 should be sorry — madam — or rather glad of any 
 accidents — that are so agreeably concluded. 
 Hem! 
 
 Hastings (To him). You never spoke better in 
 your whole life. Keep it up, and I'll insure you the 
 victory. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You 
 that have seen so much of the finest company can 
 find little entertainment in an obscure corner of 
 the country. 
 
 Marlow (Gathering courage). I have lived, in- 
 deed, in the world, madam ; but I have kept very 
 little company. I have been but an observer 
 upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. 
 
 Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to 
 enjoy it at last. 
 
 Hastings (To him). Cicero never spoke better,
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 327 
 
 Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance 
 for ever. 
 
 Marlow { To him). Hem ! Stand by me, then, 
 and when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set 
 me up again. 
 
 Miss Rani. An observer, like you, upon life, 
 were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you 
 must have had much more to censure than to ap- 
 prove. 
 
 Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was always 
 willing to be amused. The folly of most people is 
 rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. 
 
 Hastings {To him); Bravo, bravo. Never 
 spoke so well in your whole life. Well, Miss 
 Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are 
 going to be very good company. I believe our 
 being here will but embarrass the interview. 
 
 Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We 
 like your company of all things. {To him.) Zounds! 
 George, sure you -won't go? How can you leave us? 
 
 Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversa- 
 tion, so we'll retire to the next room. {To him.) 
 You don't consider, man, that we are to manage a 
 little tUe-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. 
 
 Miss Hard. {After a pause.) But you have not 
 been wholly an observer, I presume, sir. The 
 ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of 
 your addresses. 
 
 Marlow {Relapsing into timidity). Pardon me, 
 madam, I— I — I— as yet have studied— only— to 
 — deserve them. 
 
 Miss Hard. And that some say is the very worst 
 way to obtain them.
 
 328 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to 
 converse only with the more grave and sensible 
 part of the sex. But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I 
 like so much as grave conversation myself : I 
 could hear it for ever. Indeed, I have often been 
 surprised how a man of sentiment could ever ad- 
 mire those light airy pleasures, where nothing 
 reaches the heart. 
 
 Marlow. It's — a disease — of the mind, madam. 
 In the variety of tastes there must be some who, 
 wanting a relish for — um-a-um. 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There 
 must be some, who, wanting a relish for refined 
 pleasures, pretend to despise what they are in- 
 capable of tasting. 
 
 Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely 
 better expressed. And I can't help observing — 
 a 
 
 Miss Hard, {aside.) Who could ever suppose 
 this fellow impudent upon some occasions. [To 
 Aim.) You were going to observe, sir 
 
 Marlow. I was observing, madam 1 protest, 
 
 madam, I forget what I was going to observe. 
 
 Miss Hard, (aside. ) I vow and so do I. ( To 
 him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of 
 hypocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy, 
 there are few who upon strict enquiry do not — a — ■ 
 a — a 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Marlow (aside). Egad ! and that's more than 
 I du myself!
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 32g 
 
 Miss Hard. You mean that in this hypocritical 
 age there are few that do not condemn in public 
 what they practise in private, and think they pay 
 every debt to virtue when they praise it. 
 
 Marlow. True, madam ; those who have most 
 virtue in their mouths, have least of it in their 
 bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir ; there's some- 
 thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, 
 such life and force pi'ay, sir, go on. 
 
 Marlow, Yes, madam. I was saying that 
 
 there are some occasions when a total want 
 
 of courage, madam, destroys all the and puts 
 
 us upon a a a ■ 
 
 Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely, a want of 
 courage upon some occasions assumes the appear- 
 ance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most 
 want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 
 
 Mar-low. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, 
 
 madam But I see Miss Neville expecting us in 
 
 the next room. I would not intrude for the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more 
 agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. I was But she 
 
 beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself 
 the honour to attend you ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Well then, I'll follow. 
 
 Marlow (aside). This pretty smooth dialogue 
 has done for me. [Exit. 
 
 Miss IIardcastle sola. 
 
 Miss Hard. Ha! ha! ha! Was there ever such 
 a sober sentimental interview? I'm certain he 
 scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the
 
 330 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 fellow, but for his unacccountable bashfulness, is 
 pretty well, too. He has good sense, but then so 
 buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than 
 ignorance. If I could teach him a little confidence, 
 it would be doing somebody that I know of a piece 
 of service. But who is that somebody? — that, 
 faith, is a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Tony and Miss NEVILLE, followed by Mrs. 
 Hardcastle and Hastings. 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? 
 I wonder you're not ashamed to be so very en- 
 gaging. 
 
 Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to 
 one's own relations, and not be to blame. 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation 
 
 you want to make me, though ; but it won't do. 
 
 I tell you, cousin Con, it won't do, so I beg you'll 
 
 keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. 
 
 [She follows coquetting him to the back scene. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well ! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you 
 are very entertaining. There's nothing in the 
 world I love to talk of so much as London, and 
 the fashions, though I was never there myself. 
 
 Hastings. Never there ! You amaze me ! From 
 your air and manner, I concluded you had been 
 bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, 
 or Tower Wharf. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. O ! sir, you're only pleased to say 
 so. We country persons can have no manner at 
 all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves to 
 raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics ; 
 but who can have a manner, that has never seen
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 33I 
 
 the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, 
 and such places where the nobility chiefly resort ? 
 All I can do is to enjoy London at second-hand. 
 I take care to know every tete-H-tete from the 
 Scandalous Magazine, 1 and have all the fashions 
 as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss 
 Rickets of Crooked Lane. Pray how do you 
 like this head, Mr. Hastings? 
 
 Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon 
 my word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, 
 I suppose ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself from 
 a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book for the 
 last year. 
 
 Hastings. Indeed. Such a head in a side-box, 
 at the Play-house, would draw as many gazers as 
 my Lady Mayoress at a City Ball. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, 
 there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; 
 so one must dress a little particular or one may 
 escape in the crowd. 
 
 Hastings. But that can never be your case, 
 madam, in any dress ! {Bowing.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yet, what signifies my dressing 
 when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side 
 as Mr. Hardcastle : all I can say will never argue 
 clown a single button from his clothes. I have 
 often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, 
 and where he was bald, to plaster it over like my 
 Lord Pately, with powder. 
 
 [1 An allusion to the bust-portraits called "Tete-a-Tetes," 
 published, with satirical biographies, in the Town and 
 Country Magazine. Lady Waldegrave and the Duke of 
 Gloucester came early in the series.]
 
 332 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hastings. You are right, madam ; for, as among 
 the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men 
 there are none old. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer 
 was ? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said 
 I only wanted him to throw off his wig to convert 
 it into a tele for my own wearing ! 
 
 Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may 
 wear what you please, and it must become you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
 take to be the most fashionable age about town ? 
 
 Hastings. Some time ago forty was all the mode ; 
 but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for 
 the ensuing winter. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Seriously. Then I shall be too 
 young for the fashion ! 
 
 Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels 
 till she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in 
 a polite circle, would be considered as a child, as 
 a mere maker of samplers. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself 
 as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels as the 
 oldest of us all. 
 
 Hastings. Your niece, is she ? And that young 
 gentleman, a brother of yours, I should presume ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are contracted 
 to each other. Observe their little sports. They 
 fall in and out ten times a day, as if they were man 
 and wife already. {To them.) Well, Tony, child, 
 what soft things are you saying to your cousin 
 Constance, this evening ? 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but 
 that it's very hard to be followed about so. Kcod !
 
 SUE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 3 ,j 
 
 I've not a place in the house now that's left to my- 
 self but the stable. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear. 
 He's in another story behind your back. 
 
 Miss Neville. There's something generous in my 
 consin's manner. He falls out before faces to be 
 forgiven in private. 
 
 Tony. That's a damned confounded -crack. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you 
 think they're like each other about the mouth, 
 Mr. Hastings ? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. 
 They're of a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, 
 that Mr. Hastings may see you. 1 Come, Tony. 
 
 Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. 
 
 [Measuring. 
 
 Miss Neville. O lud ! he has almost cracked my 
 head. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. O, the monster ! For shame, Tony. 
 You a man, and behave so ! 
 
 Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. 
 Ecod ! I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm 
 to get for the pains I have taken in your education ? 
 I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that 
 pretty mouth with a spoon ! Did not I work that 
 waistcoat to make you genteel? Did not I pre- 
 scribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt 
 was operating? 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you 
 
 have been dosing me ever since I was born. I 
 
 have gone through every receipt in the complete 
 
 housewife ten times over ; and you have thoughts 
 
 [1 Cf. The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766, i, 158-9.]
 
 33+ PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 of coursing me through Quincy 1 next spring. Eut, 
 ecod ! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no 
 longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, viper ? 
 Wasn't it all for your good? 
 
 Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, 
 then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. 
 If I'm to have any good, let it come of itself; 
 not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. That's false ; I never see you when 
 you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the 
 alehouse or kennel. I'm never to be delighted 
 with your agreeable, wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! Mamma, your own notes are 
 the wildest of the two. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like ? But I see he 
 he wants to break my heart, I see he does. 
 
 Hastings. Dear Madam, permit me to lecture 
 the young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can 
 persuade him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well ! I must retire. Come, 
 Constance, my love. You see, Mr Hastings, 
 the wretchedness of my situation. Was ever poor 
 woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, 
 provoking, undutiful boy. 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. Tony. 
 Tony {singing). There was a young man riding 
 by, and fain would have his will. A'atig do didlo 
 
 [' John Quincy, M.D. (d. 1723) author of a highly popular 
 Complete English Dispensatory, a fourteenth edition of 
 which was published in 1772.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 335 
 
 dee. Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the com- 
 fort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over 
 a book for an hour together, and they said, they 
 liked the book thebetterthe more it made them cry. 
 
 Hastings. Then you're no friend to the ladies, 
 I find, my pretty young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. That's as I find 'urn. 
 
 Hastings. Not to her of your mother's choosing, 
 I dare answer ! And yet she appears to me a 
 pretty, well-tempered girl. 
 
 Tony. That's because you don't know her as 
 well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; 
 and there's not a more bitter cantankerous toad 
 in all Christendom ! 
 
 Hastings, [aside). Pretty encouragement, this, 
 for a lover ! 
 
 Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. 
 She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a 
 colt the first day's breaking. 
 
 Hastings, To me she appears sensible and 
 silent ! 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's 
 with her playmates she's as loud as a hog in a 
 gate. 
 
 Hastings. But there is a meek modesty about her 
 that charms me. 
 
 Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she 
 kicks up, and you're flung in a ditch. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a little 
 beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty. 
 
 Tony. Bandbox ! She's all a made up thing, 
 mun. Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of 
 these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod,
 
 g 3 6 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as 
 broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make 
 two of she. 
 
 Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that 
 would take this bitter bargain off your hands? 
 
 Tony. Anon. 
 
 Hastings. Would you thank him that would 
 take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and 
 your dear Betsy ? 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend, for 
 who would take her? 
 
 Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll 
 engage to whip her off to France, and you shall 
 never hear more of her. 
 
 Tony. Assist you ! Ecod, I will, to the last 
 drop of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to 
 your chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, 
 and may be get you a part of her fortin besides, in 
 jewels, that you little dream of. 
 
 Hastings. My dear 'Squire, this looks like a lad 
 of spirit. 
 
 Tony. Come along then, and you shall see 
 more of my spirit before you have done with me. 
 
 [Singing. 
 We are the boys 
 That fears no noise 
 Where the thundering cannons roar. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT.
 
 SUE STOOPS TO COAQUER. 337 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Enter Hardcasti.e solus. 
 
 Hardcastle. 
 
 5sj|HAT could my old friend Sir Charles 
 y§ mean by recommending his son as the 
 modestest young man in town? Tome 
 he appears the most impudent piece of 
 brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has 
 taken possession of the easy chair by the fireside 
 already. He took off his boots in the parlour, 
 and desired me to see them taken care of. I'm 
 desirous to know how his impudence affects my 
 daughter. — She will certainly be shocked at it. 
 
 Enter Miss HARDCASTLE plainly dressed. 
 
 Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed 
 your dress as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there 
 was no great occasion. 
 
 Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in 
 obeying your commands, that I take care to observe 
 them without ever debating their propriety. 
 
 Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you 
 some cause, particularly when I recommended my 
 modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 
 
 Miss Hard. You taught me to expect something 
 extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the 
 description 1 
 
 z
 
 338 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hard. I was never so surprised in my life ! He 
 has quite confounded all my faculties ! 
 
 Miss Hard. I never saw anything like it : And 
 a man of the world, too ! 
 
 Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad, — what a 
 fool was I, to think a young man could learn 
 modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn 
 wit at a masquerade. 
 
 Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. 
 
 Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company 
 and a French dancing-master. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure, you mistake, papa ! a French 
 dancing-master could never have taught him that 
 timid look, — that awkward address, — that bashful 
 manner 
 
 Hard. Whose look? whose manner? child ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise /ionic; 
 his timidity struck me at the first sight. 
 
 Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; for 
 I think him one of the most brazen first sights that 
 ever astonished my senses ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw 
 anyone so modest. 
 
 Hard. And can you be serious ! I never saw 
 such a bouncing swaggering puppy since I was 
 born. Bully Dawson ' was but a fool to him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with a 
 respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look 
 fixed on the ground. 
 
 Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly 
 
 [ l A Whitefriars bully and gutter-blood. He is immor- 
 tal i/cd in Spectator, No. 2, as having been kicked in a 
 cofl'ec-house by Sir Roger de Coverley.]
 
 SUE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 339 
 
 air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze 
 again. 
 
 Miss Hani. He treated me with diffidence and 
 respect ; censured the manners of the age ; admired 
 the prudence of girls that never laughed ; tired me 
 with apologies for being tiresome ; then left the 
 room with a bow, and, madam, I would not for 
 the world detain you. 
 
 Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his 
 life before. Asked twenty questions, and never 
 waited for an answer. Interrupted my best remarks 
 with some silly pun, and when I was in my best 
 story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince 
 Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at 
 making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father 
 if he was a maker of punch ! 
 
 Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Hard. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm 
 determined he shall never have my consent. 
 
 Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take 
 him, he shall never have mine. 
 
 Hard. In one thing then we are agreed — to 
 reject him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes. But upon conditions. For 
 if you should find him less impudent, and I more 
 presuming ; if you find him more respectful, and I 
 
 more importunate 1 don't know the fellow 
 
 is well enough for a man — Certainly we don't 
 meet many such at a horse race in the country. 
 
 Hard. If we should find him so I3ut that's 
 
 impossible. The first appearance has done my 
 business. I'm seldom deceived in that.
 
 34o PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Miss Hard. And yet there may be many good 
 qualities under that first appearance. 
 
 Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside 
 to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest 
 of his furniture. With her, a smooth face stands 
 for good sense, and a genteel figure for every 
 virtue. 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
 with a compliment to my good sense won't end 
 with a sneer at my understanding ? 
 
 Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
 brazen can find the art of reconciling contradic- 
 tions, he may please us both, perhaps. 
 
 Miss Hard. And as one of us must be mistaken, 
 what if we go to make further discoveries ? 
 
 Hard. Agreed. But depend on't I'm in the 
 right. 
 
 Miss Hard. And depend on't I'm not much in 
 the wrong. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Tony running in with a casket. 
 Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they 
 are. My Cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. 
 My mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their 
 fortin neither. O ! my genus, is that you ? 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed 
 with your mother ? I hope you have amused her 
 with pretending love for your cousin, and that you 
 are willing to be reconciled at last ? Our horses 
 will lie refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon 
 be ready to set off.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 341 
 
 Tony. And here's something to bear your 
 charges by the way. (Giving the casket.) Your 
 sweetheart's jewels. Keep them, and hang those, 
 I say, that would rob you of one of them ! 
 
 Hastings. But how have you procured them 
 from your mother ? 
 
 Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no 
 fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If 
 I had not a key to every drawer in mother's 
 bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so often as 
 I do ? An honest man may rob himself of his own 
 at any time. 
 
 Hastings. Thousands do it every clay. But to 
 be plain with you ; Miss Neville is endeavouring 
 to procure them from her aunt this very instant. 
 If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at 
 least of obtaining them. 
 
 Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it 
 will be. But I know how it will be well enough, 
 she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her 
 head ! 
 
 Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resent- 
 ment, when she finds she has lost them. 
 
 Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave 
 me to manage that. I don't value her resentment 
 the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are ! 
 Morrice, Prance ! [Exit Hastings. 
 
 Tony, Mrs. IIardcastle, Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. 
 Such a girl as you want jewels? It will be time 
 enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, 
 when your beauty begins to want repairs.
 
 342 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at 
 forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. 
 That natural blush is beyond a thousand orna- 
 ments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at 
 present. Don't you see half the ladies of our 
 acquaintance, my lady Kill-daylight, and Mrs. 
 Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to 
 town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites 1 
 back ? 
 
 A/iss Neville. But who knows, madam, but 
 somebody that shall be nameless would like me 
 best with all my little finery about me? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and 
 then see, if with such a pair of eyes, you want 
 any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, 
 my dear, does your cousin Con. want any jewels, 
 in your eyes, to set off her beauty ? 
 
 loiiy. That's as thereafter may be. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how 
 it would oblige me. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and 
 table-cut 2 things. They would make you look like 
 the court of king Solomon at a puppet-show. 
 Besides, I believe I can't readily come at them. 
 They may be missing, for aught I know to the 
 contrary. 
 
 Tony {apart to Mrs. Hard.). Then why don't 
 you tell her so at once, as she's so longing for 
 them. Tell her they're lost. It's the only way 
 
 f 1 A mineral often mistaken for gold and silver ore ] 
 ' 2 Table-cut stones have flat upper surfaces. They are 
 only cut in angles at the sides.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 343 
 
 to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to 
 bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hard, {apart to TONY.) You know, my 
 clear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say 
 they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you? 
 lie! he! he! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw 
 them taken out with my own eyes. 
 
 Miss Neville. I desire them but for a clay, 
 madam. Just to be permitted to show them as 
 relics, and then they may be locked up again. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my clear 
 Constance, if I could find them, you should have 
 them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for 
 aught I know ; but we must have patience wher- 
 ever they are. 
 
 Miss Neville. I'll not believe it ; this is but a 
 shallow pretence to deny me. I know they're too 
 valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to 
 answer for the loss. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If 
 they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But 
 my son knows they are missing, and not to be 
 found. 
 
 Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are 
 missing, and not to be found, I'll take my oath 
 on't ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my 
 dear ; for though we lose our fortune, yet we 
 should not lose our patience. See me, how calm 
 I am ! 
 
 Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at 
 the misfortunes of others.
 
 344 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Now, I wonder a girl of your good 
 sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. 
 We shall soon find them ; and, in the meantime, 
 you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels 
 be found. 
 
 Miss Neville. I detest garnets ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the 
 world to set off a clear complexion. You have 
 often seen how well they look upon me. You 
 shall have them. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. I dislike them of all thines. You 
 shan't stir. — Was ever any tiling so provoking to 
 mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her 
 trumpery. 
 
 7'o)iy. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the 
 garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are 
 your own already. I have stolen them out of her 
 bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your 
 spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave 
 me to manage her. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear cousin ! 
 
 Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed 
 them already. Zounds ! how she fidgets and spits 
 about like a Catharine wheel. 
 
 Enter Mrs. IIardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! 
 We are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone ! 
 
 Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, 
 mamma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of 
 the good family ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has 
 been broke open, the jewels taken out, and I'm 
 undone !
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 545 
 
 Tony. Oh ! is that all ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! By the 
 laws, I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, 
 I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. 
 My bureau has been broke open, and all taken 
 away. 
 
 Tony. Stick to that ; ha, ha, ha ! stick to that. 
 I'll bear witness, you know, call me to bear 
 witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's pre- 
 cious, the jewels are gone, and I shall. be ruined 
 lor ever. 
 
 Tony. Sure I know they're gone, and I am to 
 say so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
 They're gone, I say. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for 
 to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well 
 enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Airs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, 
 that can't tell the difference between jest and 
 earnest. I tell you I'm not in jest, booby ! 
 
 Tony. That's right, that's right : You must be 
 in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect 
 either of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained 
 brute, that won't hear me ! Can you bear witness 
 that you're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor 
 woman so beset with fools on one hand, and 
 thieves on the other? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Airs. Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead, 
 you, and I'll turn you out of the room directly.
 
 34G PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 My poor niece, what will become olherl Do you 
 laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my 
 distress? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster? I'll 
 teach you to vex your mother, I will ! 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 {He runs off, she follows hint. 
 
 Enter Miss HARDCASTLE and Maid. 
 
 Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is 
 that brother of mine, to send them to the house 
 as an inn, ha ! ha ! I don't wonder at his im- 
 pudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is more, madam, the young 
 gentleman as you passed by in your present dress, 
 asked me if you were the barmaid? He mistook 
 you for the barmaid, madam ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Did he ? Then as I live I'm re- 
 solved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, 
 how do you like my present dress? Don't you 
 think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux' 
 Stratagem? 1 
 
 Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady 
 wears in the country, but when she visits or 
 receives company. 
 
 Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not 
 remember my face or person? 
 
 Maid. Certain of it ! 
 
 [' By George Farquhar. " Cherry " is the daughter o« 
 
 Boniface, the landlord of the inn at Lichfield. The part 
 was originally played by Steele's friend Mrs. Bicknell.l
 
 SHE STOOrS TO CONQUER. 347 
 
 Miss Herd. I vow, I thought so ; for though we 
 spoke for some time together, yet his fears were 
 such, that he never once looked up during the 
 interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would 
 have kept him from seeing me. 
 
 Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him 
 in his mistake ? 
 
 Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be seen, 
 and that is no small advantage to a girl who 
 brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps 
 make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory 
 gained over one who never addresses any but the 
 wildest of her sex. But my chief aim is to take 
 my gentleman off his guard, and like an invisible 
 champion of romance examine the giant's force 
 before I offer to combat. 
 
 Maid. But you are sure you can act your part, 
 and disguise your voice, so that he may mistake 
 that, as he has already mistaken your person ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have 
 
 got the true bar cant. — Did your honour call ? 
 
 Attend the Lion there.—: — Pipes and tobacco for 
 the Angel. — The Lamb has been outrageous this 
 half hour ! 
 
 Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. 
 
 [Exit Maid. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 Mario-v. What a bawling in every part of the 
 house ; I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go 
 to the best room, there I find my host and his 
 story. If I fly to the gallery, there we have my 
 hostess with her curtsey down to the ground. I
 
 345 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 have at last got a moment to myself, and now for 
 recollection. L Walks and muses. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did you call, sir? did your honour 
 call? 
 
 Marlcw {musing). As for Miss Hardcastle, she's 
 too grave and sentimental for me. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did your honour call ? 
 [She still places herself before him, he turning away. 
 
 Marlow. No, child ! {Musing.) Besides from 
 the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. 
 
 Marlow. No, no! {Musing.) I have pleased 
 my father, however, by coming down, and I'll to- 
 morrow please myself by returning. 
 
 [Taking out his tablets, and perusing. 
 
 Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, 
 sir? 
 
 Marlow. I tell you, no. 
 
 Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, sir. We 
 have such a parcel of servants. 
 
 Marlow. No, no, I tell you. {Looks full in her 
 face.) Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted 
 
 1 wanted 1 vow, child, you are vastly 
 
 handsome ! 
 
 Miss Hard. O In, sir, you'll make one ashamed. 
 
 Marine. Never saw a more sprightly malicious 
 eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you 
 got any of your — a — what d'ye call it in the house ? 
 
 Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that 
 these ten days. 
 
 Marlow. One may call in this house, I find, to 
 very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a 
 taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 349 
 
 lips ; perhaps I might be disappointed in that, 
 too ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Nectar ! nectar ! that's a liquor 
 there's no call for in these parts. French, I 
 suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir. 
 
 Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure 
 you. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know it. 
 We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I 
 have lived here these eighteen years. 
 
 Marlow. Eighteen years ! Whyonewould think, 
 child, you kept the bar before you were born. How 
 old are you ? 
 
 Miss Hard. O ! sir, I must not tell my age. 
 They say women and music should never be 
 dated. 
 
 Marlow. To guess at this distance, you can't 
 be much above forty. {Approaching.) Yet nearer 
 I don't think so much. (Approaching.) Lycom- 
 ing close to some women they look younger still ; 
 but when we come very close indeed {Attempting to 
 kiss her. ) 
 
 Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One 
 would think you wanted to know one's age as they 
 do horses, by mark of mouth. 
 
 Marlow. I protest, child, you use me extremely 
 ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it 
 possible you and I can be ever acquainted ? 
 
 Miss Had. And who wants to be acquainted 
 with you? I want no such acquaintance, not I. 
 I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle that 
 was here awhile ago in this obstropalous manner. 
 I'll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and
 
 35o PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the 
 world, as if you was before a justice of peace. 
 
 Marlow (aside). Egad ! she has hit it, sure 
 enough. (To her.) In awe of her, child ? Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! A mere awkward, squinting thing, no, 
 no ! I find you don't know me. I laughed, and 
 rallied her a little ; but I was unwilling to be too 
 severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse me ! 
 
 Miss Hard. O ! then, sir, you are a favourite, 
 I find, among the ladies ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And 
 yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to 
 follow. At the Ladies' Club in town 1 I'm called 
 their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my 
 real name, but one I'm known by. My name is 
 Solomons. Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your 
 service. ( Offering to salute her. ) 
 
 Miss Hard. Hold, sir ; you were introducing 
 me to your club, not to yourself. And you're so 
 great a favourite there you say ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, 
 Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. 
 Longhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin 2 and your 
 humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it's a very merry place, I 
 suppose. 
 
 [ l See the Gentleman's Magazine for 1770, pp. 414-5, 
 which gives the rules of the so-called Female Coterie in 
 Albemarle Street here intended, together with a list of the 
 members. Horace Walpole, his friend Conway, the Walde- 
 graves, Mr. and Mrs. Darner, C. J. Fox, Sehvyn and many 
 persons of quality belonged to it.] 
 
 [- This is said to have been meant for Miss Rachael 
 Lloyd, an elderly member of the Female Coterie.]
 
 ^Jr'E STOOPS TO CONQUER. 351 
 
 Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, 
 and old women can make us. 
 
 Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Marlow (aside). Egad ! I don't quite like this 
 chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, 
 child ! 
 
 Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think what time 
 they all have for minding their work or their family. 
 
 Marlow (aside). All's well, she don't laugh at 
 me. (To her.) Do you ever work, child? 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or 
 a quilt in the whole house but what can bear 
 witness to that. 
 
 Marlow. Odso ! Then you must show me your 
 embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself 
 a little. If you want a judge of your work you must 
 apply to me. [Seizing her hand. 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours don't look well 
 by candle light. You shall see all in the morning. 
 
 [Struggling. 
 
 Marlon'. And why not now, my angel ? Such 
 
 beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. 
 
 Pshaw ! the father here ! My old luck : I never 
 nicked seven that I did not throw ames-ace l three 
 times following. [Exit Marlow. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. 
 Hard. So, madam ! So I find this is your 
 
 [1 Ames ace = ambs-ace, i.e. a cast of double ace. " And 
 Ames-Ace loses what kind Sixes won "—says a poem attri- 
 buted to Prior.]
 
 35= PLATS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 modest lover. This is your humble admirer that 
 kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored 
 at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not 
 ashamed to deceive your father so? 
 
 Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's 
 still the modest man I first took him for, you'll be 
 convinced of it as well as I. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his 
 impudence is infectious ! Didn't I sec him seize 
 your hand? Didn't I see him haul you about like 
 a milkmaid ? and now you talk of his respect and 
 his modesty, forsooth ! 
 
 Jl/iss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his 
 modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass 
 off with time, and the virtues that will improve 
 with age, I hope you'll forgive him. 
 
 Hard. The girl would actually make one run 
 mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am 
 convinced. He has scarcely been three hours in 
 the house, and he has already encroached on all 
 my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, 
 and call it modesty. But my son-in-law, madam, 
 must have very different qualifications. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to convince 
 you. 
 
 Hard. You shall not have half the time, for I 
 have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. 
 
 Miss Hard. Give me that hour then, and I hope 
 to satisfy you. 
 
 Hard. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll 
 have no trilling with your father. All fair and 
 open, do you mind me? 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 353 
 
 that I considered your commands as my pride ; for 
 your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been 
 inclination. \Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
 A A
 
 354 PLATS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. 
 
 ]0U surprise me ! Sir Charles Marlow 
 expected here this night? Where have 
 you had your information ? 
 Miss Neville. You may depend upon 
 it. I just saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in 
 which he tells him he intends setting out a few 
 hours after his son. 
 
 Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be 
 completed before he arrives. He knows me ; and 
 should he find me here, would discover my name, 
 and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe. 
 
 Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to 
 Marlow, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In 
 the meantime, I'll go to prepare matters for our 
 elopement. I have had the Squire's promise of a 
 fresh pair of horses ; and, if I should not see him 
 again, will write him further directions. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well ! success attend you. In 
 the meantime, I'll go amuse my aunt with the old 
 pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Marli )\V, followed by a Servant. 
 Marlow, I wonder what Hastings could mean 
 by sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 355 
 
 keep for him, when he knows the only place I 
 have is the seat of a post-coach at an Inn-door. 
 Have you deposited the casket with the landlady, 
 as I ordered you ? I lave you put it into her own 
 hands ? 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honour. 
 
 JSIarlow. She said she'd keep it safe, did she? 
 
 Servant. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough ; 
 she asked me how I came by it ? and she said she 
 had a great mind to make me give an account of 
 myself. {Exit Servant. 
 
 Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. 
 What an unaccountable set of beings have we got 
 amongst ! This little barmaid though runs in my 
 head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities 
 of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she 
 must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken ! 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her 
 that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the 
 garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too ! 
 
 Marlow. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, 
 shadow me with laurels ! Well, George, after all, 
 we modest fellows don't want for success among 
 the women. 
 
 Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what 
 success has your honour's modesty been crowned 
 with now, that it grows so insolent upon us ? 
 
 Marlow. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, 
 lovely little thing that runs about the house with 
 a bunch of keys to its girdle ? 
 
 Hastings. Well ! and what then ?
 
 356 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Marlow. She's mine, you rogue, you. Such 
 
 fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips but 
 
 egad ! she would not let me kiss them though. 
 
 Hastings. But are you sure, so very sure of her ? 
 
 Mariano. Why, man, she talked of showing me 
 her work above-stairs, and I am to improve the 
 pattern. 
 
 Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about 
 to rob a woman of her honour ? 
 
 Marlow. Pshaw ! pshaw ! we all know the 
 honour of the barmaid of an inn. I don't intend 
 to rob her, take my word for it, there's nothing in 
 this house, I shan't honestly pay for ! 
 
 Hastings. I believe the girl has virtue. 
 
 Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last 
 man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 
 
 Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the 
 casket I sent you lock up ? It's in safety ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have 
 taken care of it. But how could you think the seat 
 of a post-coach at an Inn-door a place of safety ? 
 Ah ! numbskull ! I have taken better precautions 
 for you than you did for yourself. 1 have 
 
 Hastings. What ! 
 
 Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep 
 for you. 
 
 Hastings. To the landlady ! 
 
 Marloiv. The landlady. 
 
 Hastings. You did ! 
 
 Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its 
 forth-coming, you know. 
 
 Hastings. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a wit- 
 ness.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 337 
 
 Marlaw. Wasn't I right ? I believe you'll allow 
 that I acted prudently upon this occasion ? 
 
 Hastings {aside). He must not see my uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted, though, 
 methinks. Sure nothing has happened ? 
 
 Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better 
 spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the 
 landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook 
 the charge ? 
 
 Marlow. Rather too readily. For she not only- 
 kept the casket, but, through her great precaution, 
 was going to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hastings. He ! he ! he ! They're safe, however. 
 
 Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 
 
 Hastings (aside). So now all hopes of fortune 
 are at an end, and we must set off without it. ( To 
 him.) Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your medi- 
 tations on the pretty barmaid, and, he ! he ! he ! 
 may you be as successful for yourself as you have 
 been for me. [Exit. 
 
 Marlow. Thank ye, George ! I ask no more. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard I no longer know my own house. It's 
 turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got 
 drunk already. I'll bear it no longer, and yet, 
 from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. (To 
 him.) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm your very 
 humble servant. [Bowing low. 
 
 Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside.) 
 What's to be the wonder now ?
 
 35 8 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, 
 that no man alive ought to be more welcome than 
 your father's son, sir. I hope you think so? 
 
 Marlow. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't want 
 much entreaty. I generally make my father's son 
 welcome wherever he goes. 
 
 Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But 
 though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of 
 your servants is insufferable. Their manner of 
 drinking is setting a very bad example in this 
 house, I assure you. 
 
 Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that's no 
 fault of mine. If they don't, drink as they ought 
 they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare 
 the cellar, I did, I assure you. ( To the side scene.) 
 Here, let one of my servants come up. (To him.) 
 My positive directions were, that as I did not drink 
 myself, they should make up for my deficiencies 
 below. 
 
 Hard. Then they had your orders for what they 
 do ! I'm satisfied ! 
 
 Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall 
 hear from one of themselves. 
 
 Enter Servant, drunk. 
 
 Marlow. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! 
 What were my orders? Were you not told to 
 drink freely, and call for what you thought fit, for 
 the good of the house ? 
 
 Hard, (aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 
 
 Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet 
 Street for ever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm 
 as good as another man. I'll drink for no man
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 359 
 
 before supper, sir, dammy ! Good liquor will sit 
 upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit 
 upon hiccup upon my conscience, sir. 
 
 Marlow. You see, my old friend, the fellow is 
 as drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know 
 what you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor 
 devil soused in a beer-barrel. 
 
 Hard. Zounds ! He'll drive me distracted if I 
 contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow. Sir ; I 
 have submitted to your insolence for more than 
 four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to 
 an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, 
 and I desire that you and your drunken pack may 
 leave my house directly. 
 
 Marlow. Leave your house ! — Sure, you jest, my 
 good friend ! What, when I'm doing what I can 
 to please you ! 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; so 
 I desire you'll leave my house. 
 
 Marlow. Sure, you cannot be serious ! At this 
 time of night, and such a night ! You only mean 
 to banter me ! 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ; and, now 
 that my passions are roused, I say this house is 
 mine, sir ; this house is mine, and I command you 
 to leave it directly. 
 
 Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. 
 I shan't stir a step, I assure you. {In a serious tone. ) 
 This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This is 
 my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. What 
 right have you to bid me leave this house, sir i* 
 I never met with such impudence, curse me, never 
 in my whole life before !
 
 360 PL.lVS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did ! To 
 come to my house, to call for what he likes, to 
 turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, 
 to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell 
 me This house is mine, sir. By all that's impudent, 
 it makes me laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Tray, sir, 
 {Bantering.) as you take the house, what think you 
 of taking the rest of the furniture ? There's a pair 
 of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire-screen, and 
 here's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows, perhaps you 
 7nay take a fancy to them ? 
 
 Mai-low. Bring me your bill, sir, bring me your 
 bill, and let's make no more words about it. 
 
 Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What 
 think you of the Rake's Progress l for your own 
 apartment ? 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say ; and I'll 
 leave you and your infernal house directly. 
 
 Hard. Then there's a mahogany table, that you 
 may see your own face in. 
 
 Marlow. My bill, I say. 
 
 Hard. I had forgot the great chair, for your own 
 particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 
 
 Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and 
 let's hear no more on't. 
 
 Hard. Young man, young man, from your 
 father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well- 
 bred modest man, as a visitor here, but now I find 
 him no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but he 
 will be down here presently, and shall hear more 
 of it. [Exit. 
 
 Marlow. How's this ! Sure, I have not mistaken 
 L 1 By Hogarth.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO COXQUER. 3*1 
 
 the house? Everything looks like an inn. The 
 servants cry "coming." The attendance is awk- 
 ward ; the barmaid, too, to attend us. But she's 
 here, and will further inform me. fc Whither so fast, 
 child ? A word with you. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in a 
 hurry. — {Aside.) I believe he begins to find out his 
 mistake, but it's too soon quite to undeceive him. 
 
 Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one question. 
 What are you, and what may your business in this 
 house be ? 
 
 Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Marlow. What? A poor relation ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir. A poor relation appointed 
 to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want 
 nothing in my power to give them. 
 
 Marlow. That is, you act as the barmaid of this 
 inn. 
 
 Miss Hard. Inn ! O law !— What brought that 
 in your head? One of the best families in the 
 county keep an inn ! I la, ha, ha, old Mr. Hard- 
 castle's house an inn ! 
 
 Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this house 
 Mr. Hardcastle's house, child ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be. 
 
 Marlow. So then all's out, and I have been 
 damnably imposed on. O, confound my stupid 
 head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. 
 I shall be stuck up in caricature in all the print- 
 shops. The Dullissimo Macaroni. 1 To mistake 
 
 C 1 At this date the print-shops, and especially Matthew
 
 362 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 this house of all others for an inn, and my father's 
 old friend for an inn-keeper ! What a swaggering 
 puppy must he take me for. What a silly puppy 
 do I find myself. There again, may I be hanged, 
 my dear, but I mistook you for the barmaid ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure 
 there's nothing in my bekavour to put me upon a 
 level with one of that stamp. 
 
 Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I 
 was in for a list of blunders, and could not help 
 making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw every- 
 thing the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity 
 for assurance, and your simplicity for allurement. 
 But it's over — this house I no more show my face 
 in ! 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to 
 disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to 
 affront any gentleman who has been so polite, and 
 said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should 
 be sorry {Pretending to cry.') if he left the family 
 upon my account. I'm sure I should be sorry 
 people said anything amiss, since I have no fortune 
 but my character. 
 
 Marlow [aside). By heaven, she weeps. This 
 is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a 
 modest woman, and it touches me. {To her.) 
 Excuse me, my lovely girl, you are the only part 
 
 Darly's in the Strand, were filled with engravings, generally 
 satirizing well-known individuals and having titles of this 
 kind, e.g., The Lilly Macaroni (Lord Ancrum), Tlie South- 
 •wark Macaroni (Mr. Thrale), The Martial Macaroni 
 (Goldsmith's friend, Ensign Horneck) and so forth. See 
 note to p. 128, vol. i, on the Macaronies.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 363 
 
 of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be 
 plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune 
 and education, make an honourable connexion 
 impossible ; and I can never harbour a thought of 
 seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, or 
 bringing ruin upon one whose only fault was being 
 too lovely. 
 
 Miss Hard, (aside.) Generous man ! I now 
 begin to admire him. (To him.) But I'm sure 
 my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's, and 
 though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a 
 contented mind, and, until this moment, I never 
 thought that it was bad to want fortune. 
 
 Marlow. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a distance 
 from one, that if I had a thousand pound I would 
 give it all to. 
 
 Marlow (aside). This simplicity bewitches me, 
 so that if I stay I'm undone. I must make one 
 bold effort, and leave her. ( To Iter. ) Your par- 
 tiality in my favour, my clear, touches me most 
 sensibly, and were I to live for myself alone, I 
 could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much 
 to the opinion of the world, too much to the autho- 
 rity of a father, so that— I can scarcely speak it — 
 it affects me ! Farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till 
 now. He shall not go, if I have power or art to 
 detain him. I'll still preserve the character in 
 which I stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my 
 papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his 
 resolution. \E.\ it.
 
 364 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Tony, Miss Neville. 
 
 Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next 
 time. I have done my duty. She has got the 
 jewels again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes 
 it was all a mistake of the servants. 
 
 Miss Neville. But, my dear cousin, sure, you 
 won't forsake us in this distress. If she in the 
 least suspects that I am going off, I shall certainly 
 be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which 
 is ten times worse. 
 
 Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned 
 bad things. But what can I do ? I have got you 
 a pair of horses that will fly like Whistlejacket, 
 and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you 
 nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must 
 court a bit or two more, for fear she should suspect 
 us. [They retire, and seem to fondle. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be 
 sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake of 
 the servants. I shan't be easy, however, till they 
 are fairly married, and then let her keep her own 
 fortune. But what do I see ! Fondling together, 
 as I'm alive ! I never saw Tony so sprightly 
 before. Ah ! have I caught you, my pretty dovts i 
 What, billing, exchanging stolen glances, and 
 broken murmurs ! Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a 
 little now and then, to be sure. But there's no 
 love lost between us.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 365 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the 
 flame, only to make it burn brighter. 
 
 Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises to give us 
 more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan't 
 leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, 
 will it ? 
 
 Tony. O ! it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner 
 leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when 
 you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so 
 becoming. 
 
 Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help 
 admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, 
 broad, red, thoughtless, {Patting his cheek.) ah! 
 it's a bold face. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence ! 
 
 Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's 
 hazle eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she 
 twists this way and that, over the haspicholls, 1 
 like a parcel of bobbins. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ah, he would charm the bird from 
 the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy 
 takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. 
 The jewels, my dear Con, shall be your's incon- 
 tinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet 
 boy, my dear ? You shall be married to-morrow, 
 and we'll put off the rest of his education, like Dr. 
 Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. 
 
 Enter Diggory. 
 Diggory. Where's the 'Squire? I have got a 
 letter for your worship. 
 
 [1 Goldsmith does not seem to have invented this delight- 
 ful perversion, for Gray uses it in a letter to his friend
 
 366 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my 
 letters first. 
 
 Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your 
 own hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from ? 
 
 Diggory. Your worship mun ask that of the 
 letter itself. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know, though. ( Turning 
 the letter, and gazing on it.) 
 
 Miss Neville {aside). Undone, undone ! A letter 
 to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my 
 aunt sees it we are ruined for ever. I'll keep her 
 employed a little if I can. ( To Mrs. Hardcastle. ) 
 But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's 
 smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so 
 laughed — you must know, madam — this way a 
 little, for he must not hear us. ( They confer.) 
 
 Tony {Still gazing). A damned cramp piece of 
 penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read 
 your print-hand very well. But here there are 
 such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one 
 can scarce tell the head from the tail. To Anthony 
 Lumpkin, Esquire. It's very odd, I can read the 
 outside of my letters, where my own name is, well 
 enough. But when I come to open it, it's all — 
 buzz. That's hard, very hard ; for the inside of 
 the letter is always the cream of the correspondence. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I la ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very 
 well. And so my son was too hard for the philo- 
 sopher ! 
 
 Miss Neville. Yes, madam ; but you must hear 
 
 Chute of 1746. He has "not seen the face of a Haspical, since, 
 lie came home." Probably it was a popular vulgarism.]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 3O7 
 
 the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he 
 may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him 
 again. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now 
 himself, methinks. 
 
 Tony (Still gazing). A damned up and down 
 hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. [Reading.) 
 Dear Sir. Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, 
 and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an 
 izzard or an R, confound me, I cannot tell ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. What's that, my dear ? Can I 
 give you any assistance? 
 
 Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. No- 
 body reads a cramp hand better than I. (Twitch- 
 ingtlieletterfrom her.) Do you know who it is from? 
 
 Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger the 
 feeder. 1 
 
 Miss Neville. Ay, so it is. (Pretending to read. ) 
 Dear 'Squire, Hoping that you're in health, as I 
 am at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake- 
 bag club has cut the gentlemen of Goose-green 
 quite out of feather. The odds — um — odd battle 
 — um — long fighting — um, here, here, it's all about 
 cocks, and fighting ; it's of no consequence, here, 
 put it up, put it up. [Thrusting the crumpled 
 
 letter upo?i hi in. 
 
 Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the con- 
 sequence in the world ! I would not lose the rest 
 of it for a guinea ! Here, mother, do you make it 
 out ? Of no consequence ! [Giving Mrs. Hard- 
 
 castle the letter. 
 
 [ l That is — the cock-feeder. Compare the Vicar 0/ 
 Wakefield, 1766, i, 57.]
 
 368 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. How's this ! {Reads.) Dear 'Squire, 
 I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post- 
 chaise and pair, at the bottom of the garden, but 
 I find my horses yet unable to perform the journey. 
 I expect you'll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, 
 as you promised. Dispatch is necessary, as the 
 hag (ay, the hag) your mother, will otherwise sus- 
 pect us. Yours, Hastings. Grant me patience. 
 I shall run distracted ! My rage chokes me. 
 
 Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you'll suspend 
 your resentment for a few moments, and not im- 
 pute to me any impertinence, or sinister design 
 that belongs to another. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Curtseyingvcrylow.) Fine spoken, 
 madam, you are most miraculously polite and 
 engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and 
 circumspection, madam. {Changing her tone.) 
 And you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce 
 sense enough to keep your mouth shut. Were 
 you too joined against me? But I'll defeat all 
 your plots in a moment. As for you, madam, 
 since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, 
 it would be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you 
 please, instead of running away with your spark, 
 prepare, this very moment, to run off with me. 
 Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I'll 
 warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your 
 horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, 
 Roger, Diggory, I'll show you that I wish you 
 better than you do yourselves. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Neville. So now I'm completely ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 
 
 Miss Neville. What better could be expected
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 369 
 
 from being connected with such a stupid fool, and 
 after all the nods and signs I made him. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own 
 cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your 
 business. You were so nice and so busy with 
 your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought 
 you could never be making believe. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant, that 
 you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was 
 this well done, young gentleman ? 
 
 Tony. Here's another. Ask miss there who 
 betrayed you. Ecod, it was her doing, not 
 mine. 
 
 Enter Mar low. 
 
 Marlow. So I have been finely used here among 
 you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill 
 manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. 
 
 Tony. Here's another. We shall have old 
 Bedlam broke loose presently. 
 
 Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman 
 to whom we all owe every obligation. 
 
 Marlow. What can I say to him, a mere boy, 
 an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. 
 
 Hastings. A poor contemptible booby, that 
 would but disgrace correction. 
 
 Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice 
 enough to make himself merry with all our em- 
 barrassments. 
 
 /fastings. An insensible cub. 
 
 Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 b n
 
 37o PLAVS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Tony. Baw ! damme, but I'll fight you both 
 one after the other, with baskets. 
 
 Marlow. As for him, lie's below resentment. 
 But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an ex- 
 planation. You knew of my mistakes, yet would 
 not undeceive me. 
 
 Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own dis- 
 appointments, is this a time for explanations ? It 
 is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. But, sir — ■ 
 
 Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on 
 your mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. 
 Be pacified. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. My mistress desires you'll get ready 
 immediately, madam. The horses are putting to. 
 Your hat and things are in the next room. We 
 are to go thirty miles before morning. 
 
 \Exit Servant. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, well; I'll come presently. 
 
 Marlow {To Hastings). Was it well done, sir, 
 to assist in rendering me ridiculous ? To liang me 
 out for the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend 
 upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 
 
 Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon 
 that subject, to deliver what I entrusted to your- 
 self, to the care of another, sir ? 
 
 Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings. Mr. Marlow. 
 Why will you increase my distress by this ground- 
 less dispute ? I implore, I entreat you
 
 SHE STOOTS TO CONQUER. 371 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is 
 impatient. 
 
 Miss Neville. I come. Pray be pacified. If I 
 leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. 
 The horses are waiting. 
 
 Miss Neville. O, Mr. Marlovv ! if you knew 
 what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies 
 before me, I'm sure it would convert your resent- 
 ment into pity. 
 
 Marlow. I'm so distracted with a variety of 
 passions, that I don't know what I do. Forgive 
 me, madam. George, forgive me. You know 
 my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. 
 
 Hastings. The torture of my situation is my 
 only excuse. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if you 
 have that esteem for me that I think, that I am 
 sure you have, your constancy for three years will 
 but increase the happiness of our future connec- 
 tion. If— 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Within.) Miss Neville. Con- 
 stance, why, Constance, I say. 
 
 Miss Neville. I'm coming. Well, constancy. 
 Remember, constancy is the word. {Exit. 
 
 Hastings. My heart ! How can I support this ! 
 To be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 
 
 Marlow {To Tony). You see now, young
 
 372 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 gentleman, the effects of your folly. What might 
 be amusement to you, is here disappointment, and 
 even distress. 
 
 Tony {From a reverie). Ecod, I have hit it. It's 
 here. Your hands. Yours and yours, my poor Sulky. 
 My boots there, ho ! Meet me two hours hence at 
 the bottom of the garden ; and if you don't find 
 Tony Lumpkin a more good-natur'd fellow than 
 you thought for, I'll give you leave to take my 
 best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain ! 
 Come along. My boots, ho ! [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 373 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene. — Continues. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Servant. 
 
 Hastings. 
 OU saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
 drive off, you say? 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honour. They 
 went off in a post coach, and the 
 young 'Squire went on horseback. They're thirty 
 miles off by this time. 
 
 Hastings. Then all my hopes are over. 
 Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived, 
 lie and the old gentleman of the house have been 
 laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. 
 They are coming this way. 
 
 Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now 
 to my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the 
 garden. This is about the time. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles and Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in 
 which he sent forth his sublime commands. 
 
 Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I sup- 
 pose he treated all your advances. 
 
 Hard. And yet he might have seen something 
 in me above a common innkeeper, too.
 
 371 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for 
 an uncommon innkeeper, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of 
 anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union 
 of our families will make our personal friendships 
 hereditary : and though my daughter's fortune is 
 but small 
 
 Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune 
 to vie ? My son is possessed of more than a com- 
 petence already, and can want nothing but a good 
 and virtuous girl to share his happiness and in- 
 crease it. If they like each other, as you say they 
 do 
 
 Hard. If, man ! I tell you they do like each 
 other. My daughter as good as told me so. 
 
 Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter them- 
 selves, you know. 
 
 Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest 
 manner myself; and here he comes to put you out 
 of your ifs, I warrant him. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon 
 for my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on 
 my insolence without confusion. 
 
 Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
 gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my 
 daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never 
 like you the worse for it. 
 
 Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her 
 approbation. 
 
 Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. 
 Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have some-
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 375 
 
 thing more than approbation thereabouts. You 
 take me. 
 
 Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 
 Hard. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know 
 what's what, as well as you that are younger. I 
 know what has past between you ; but mum. 
 
 Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has past between 
 us but the most profound respect on my side, and 
 the most distant reserve on her's. You don't 
 think, sir, that my impudence has been past upon 
 all the rest of the family. 
 
 Hard. Impudence ! No, I don't say that— Not 
 quite impudence— Though girls like to be played 
 with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But 
 she has told no tales, I assure you. 
 
 Marlcnv. I never gave her the slightest cause. 
 
 Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place 
 well enough. But this is over-acting, young 
 gentleman. You may be open. Your father and 
 I will like you the better for it. 
 
 Marloiv. May I die, sir, if I ever 
 
 Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and as 
 I'm sure you like her 
 
 Marlow. Dear sir — I protest, sir 
 
 Hard. I see no reason why you should not be 
 joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 
 
 Marlcnv. But hear me, sir 
 
 Hard. Your father approves the match, I ad- 
 mire it, every moment's delay will be doing mis- 
 chief, so 
 
 Marlow. But why won't you hear me ? By all 
 that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle 
 the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the
 
 376 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We 
 had but one interview, and that was formal, 
 modest, and uninteresting. 
 
 Hard, (aside.) This fellow's formal modest 
 impudence is beyond bearing. 
 
 Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, 
 or made any protestations ! 
 
 Marlow. As heaven is my witness, I came down 
 in obedience to your commands. I saw the lady 
 without emotion, and parted without reluctance. 
 I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, 
 nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I 
 suffer so many mortifications. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of sin- 
 cerity with which he parted. 
 
 Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliberate 
 intrepidity of his assurance. 
 
 Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honour 
 upon his truth. 
 
 Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would 
 stake my happiness upon her veracity. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 
 sincerely, and without reserve ; has Mr. Marlow 
 made you any professions of love and affection ? 
 
 Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir ! 
 But since you require unreserved sincerity, I think 
 he has. 
 
 Hard. (To Sir Charles.) You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and 
 my son had more than one interview ?
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 377 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. 
 
 Hard. {To Sir Charles.) You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment? 
 
 Miss Hard. A lasting one. 
 
 Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Much, sir. 
 
 Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally? 
 
 Miss Hard. Formally. 
 
 Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. 
 
 Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam? 
 
 Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do. 
 Said some civil things of my face, talked much 
 of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; 
 mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, 
 and ended with pretended rapture. 
 
 Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, in- 
 deed. I know his conversation among women to 
 be modest and submissive. This forward, canting, 
 ranting manner by no means describes him, and I 
 am confident he never sat for the picture. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should con- 
 vince you to your face of my sincerity? If you 
 and my papa, in about half-an-hour, will place 
 yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him 
 declare his passion to me in person. 
 
 Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what 
 you describe, all my happiness in him must have 
 an end. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Hard. And if you don't find him what I 
 describe— I fear my happiness must never have a 
 beginning. {Exeunt.
 
 37 3 FLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Scene. — Changes to the back of I he Garden. 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 Hastings. What an idiot am I, to wait here for 
 a fellow, who probably takes a delight in mortify- 
 ing me. He never intended to be punctual, and 
 I'll wait no longer. What do I see? It is he, 
 and perhaps with news of my Constance. 
 
 Enter TONY, booted and spattered. 
 
 Hastings. My honest 'Squire ! I now find you 
 a man of your word. This looks like friendship. 
 
 Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend 
 you have in the world, if you knew but all. This 
 riding by night, by-the-bye, is cursedly tiresome. 
 It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage- 
 coach. l 
 
 Hastings. But how ? Where did you leave your 
 fellow-travellers? Are they in safety ? Are they 
 housed ? 
 
 Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours and 
 a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts 
 have smoked for it : Rabbit me, but I'd rather 
 ride forty miles after a fox, than ten with such 
 varmint. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but where have you left the 
 ladies? I die with impatience. 
 
 Tony. Left them ? Why, where should I leave 
 them, but where I found them ? 
 
 //listings. This is a riddle. 
 
 t 1 Cf. C. P. Moritz, Travels in England in 17S2.J
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 379 
 
 Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes 
 round the house, and round the house, and never 
 touches the house ? 
 
 Hastings. I'm still astray. 
 
 Tony. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them 
 astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or slough 
 within five miles of the place but they can tell the 
 
 taste of. 
 
 Hastings. Ha, ha, ha, I understand ; you took 
 them in a round, while they supposed themselves 
 going forward. And so you have at last brought 
 them home again. 
 
 Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
 Feather-bed-lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. 
 I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up- 
 and-down Hill— I then introduced them to the 
 gibbet on Heavy-tree Heath, and from that, with 
 a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the 
 horsepond at the bottom of the garden. 
 
 Hastings. But no accident, I hope. 
 
 Tony. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly 
 frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. 1 
 She's sick of the journey, and the cattle can scarce 
 crawl. So, if your own horses be ready, you may 
 whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no 
 soul here can budge a foot to follow you. 
 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be grate- 
 ful ? 
 
 Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'Squire. 
 Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me 
 through the guts. Damn your way of fighting, 
 
 [I A trick of this kind was afterwards played by Sherid.ui 
 ou Madame de Genlis (Memoirs, 1825, iv. 113-8).]
 
 380 FLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 I say. After we take a knock in this part of the 
 country, we kiss and be friends. But if you had 
 run me through the guts, then I should be dead, 
 and you might go kiss the hangman. 
 
 Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must 
 hasten to relieve Miss Neville ; if you keep the 
 old lady employed, I promise to take care of the 
 young one. {Exit Hastings. 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. 
 She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the 
 waist like a mermaid. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed. Shook. 
 Battered to death. I shall never survive it. That 
 last jolt that laid us against the quickset hedge 
 has done my business. 
 
 Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own 
 fault. You would be for running away by night, 
 without knowing one inch of the way. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. I 
 never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 
 Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck 
 fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to 
 lose our way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, 
 Tony ? 
 
 Tony. By my guess we should be upon Crack- 
 skull Common, about forty miles from home. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. O hid ! O lud ! the most notorious 
 spot in all the country. We only want a robbery 
 to make a complete night on't. 
 
 'Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. 
 Two of the live that kept here arc hanged, and the
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 38 1 
 
 other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. Is 
 that a man that's gallopiug behind us ? No ; its 
 only a tree. Don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. 
 
 Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat 
 moving behind the thicket ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. O death ! 
 
 Toizy. No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, 
 mamma, don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
 coming towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he 
 perceives us, we are undone. 
 
 Tony {aside). Father-in-law, by all that's un- 
 lucky, come to take one of his night walks. {To 
 her.) Ah, it's a highwayman, with pistols as long 
 as my arm. A damned ill-looking fellow. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Good heaven defend us ! He ap- 
 proaches. 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 
 leave me to manage him. If there be any danger 
 I'll cough and cry hem. When I cough be sure 
 to keep close. [Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind 
 
 a tree in the back scene. 
 
 Enter HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people 
 in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did 
 not expect you so soon back. Are your mother 
 and her charge in safety ? 
 
 Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. 
 Hem. 
 
 Airs. Hard. {From behind.) Ah! I find there's 
 danger.
 
 3 32 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Hard. Forty miles in three hours ; sure, that's 
 too much, my youngster. 
 
 Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make 
 short journeys, as they say. Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Sure he'll do the 
 dear boy no harm. 
 
 Hard. But I heard a voice here ; I should be 
 glad to know from whence it came ? 
 
 Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I 
 was saying that forty miles in four hours was very 
 good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. 
 I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. 
 We'll go in if you please. Hem. 
 
 Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not 
 answer yourself. I am certain I heard two voices, 
 and am resolved {Raising his voice.) to find the 
 other out. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Oh ! he's coming to 
 find me out. Oh ! 
 
 Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you? 
 Hem. I'll lay down my life for the truth — hem — 
 I'll tell you all, sir. [Detaining him. 
 
 Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist 
 on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Running fortuard from behind.) 
 O lud, he'll murder my poor boy, my darling. 
 Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. 
 Take my money, my life, but spare that young 
 gentleman, spare my child, if you have any'mercy. 
 
 Hard. My wife ! as I'm a Christian. From 
 whence can she come, or what does she mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Kneeling.) Take compassion on us, 
 good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 383 
 
 watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We 
 will never bring you to justice, indeed we won't, 
 good Mr. Highwayman. 
 
 Hard. I believe the woman's out of her senses. 
 What, Dorothy, don't you know mei 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! My 
 fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have 
 expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, 
 so far from home. What has brought you to 
 follow us ? 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you havenot lostyour wits! 
 So far from home, when you are within forty yards 
 of your own door ! {To him.) This is one of your 
 old tricks, you graceless rogue, you ! ( To her.) 
 Don't you know the gate, and the mulberry-tree ; 
 and don't you remember the horsepond, my dear ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
 pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in 
 it. {To Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless 
 varlet, I owe all this? I'll teach you to abuse 
 your mother, I will. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you 
 have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. 
 
 [Follows him off the stage. Exit. 
 
 Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you 
 deliberate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost 
 for ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall 
 soon be out of the reach of her malignity.
 
 3 8 4 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are 
 so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am 
 unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' 
 patience will at last crown us with happiness. 
 
 Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than in- 
 constancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our 
 happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune. 
 Love and content will increase what we possess 
 beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail. 
 
 Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence 
 once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its 
 dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may 
 be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repen- 
 tance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Ilardcastle's 
 compassion and justice for redress. 
 
 Hastings. But though he had the will, he has 
 not the power to relieve you. 
 
 Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon 
 that I am resolved to rely. 
 
 Hastings. I have no hopes. But since you 
 persist, I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scen E. — Changes. 
 
 Enter Sir CHARLES and Miss HARDCASTLE. 
 
 Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what 
 you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If 
 what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, 
 of all others, I most wished for a daughter. 
 
 Miss Hard. I am proud of your approbation ; 
 and, to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as 
 I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. 
 But he comes.
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 3S5 
 
 Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him 
 to the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, 
 I come once more to take leave, nor did I, 
 till this moment, know the pain I feel in the 
 separation. 
 
 Miss Hard. (In her own natural manner.) I 
 believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, 
 which you can so easily remove. A day or two 
 longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by 
 showing the little value of what you think proper 
 to regret. 
 
 Marlow (aside). This girl every moment im- 
 proves upon me. (To her.) It must not be, 
 madam. I have already trifled too long with 
 my heart. My veiy pride begins to submit to 
 my passion. The disparity of education and for- 
 tune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of 
 my equals, begin to lose their weight ; and nothing 
 can restore me to myself but this painful effort of 
 resolution. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then go, sir. I'll urge nothing 
 more to detain you. Though my family be as 
 good as her's you came down to visit, and my 
 education, I hope, not inferior, what are these 
 advantages without equal affluence? I must 
 remain contented with the slight approbation 
 of imputed merit ; I must have only the mockery 
 of your addresses, while all your serious aims are 
 fixed on fortune. 
 
 cc
 
 3S6 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles from 
 behind. 
 
 Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
 
 Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. I'll engage my 
 Kate covers him with confusion at last. 
 
 Marloiv. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever 
 my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first 
 caught my eye ; for who could see that without 
 emotion? But every moment that I converse with 
 you, steals in some new grace, heightens the 
 picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at 
 first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined 
 simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, 
 now strikes me as the result of courageous inno- 
 cence, and conscious virtue. 
 
 Sir Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes 
 me ! 
 
 Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
 Jlfarlozv. I am now determined to stay, madam, 
 and I have too good an opinion of my father's dis- 
 cernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approba- 
 tion. 
 
 Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, can- 
 not detain you. Do you think I could suffer a 
 connexion, in which there is the smallest room for 
 repentance ? Do you think I would take the mean 
 advantage of a transient passion, to load you with 
 confusion ? Do you think I could ever relish that 
 happiness, which was acquired by lessening your's ? 
 
 Alarloiv. By all that's good, I can have no 
 happiness but what's in your power to grant me. 
 Nor shall I ever feel repentance, but in not having
 
 she stoops to conquer. 387 
 
 seen your merits before. I will stay, even contrary 
 to your wishes ; and though you should persist to 
 shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities 
 atone for the levity of my past conduct. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. 
 As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in in- 
 difference. I might have given an hour or two to 
 levity ; but, seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think 
 I could ever submit to a connexion, where /must 
 appear mercenary, and you imprudent ? Do you 
 think I could ever catch at the confident addresses 
 of a secure admirer? 
 
 Marlow {Kneeling). Does this look like se- 
 curity ? Does this look like confidence ? No, 
 madam, every moment that shows me your merit, 
 only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. 
 Here let me continue 
 
 Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
 Charles, how hast thou deceived me : Is this your 
 indifference, your uninteresting conversation ! 
 
 Hard. Your cold contempt ! your formal inter- 
 view ! What have you to say now ? 
 
 Marlow. That I'm all amazement ! What can 
 it mean? 
 
 Hard. It means that you can say and unsay 
 things at pleasure. That you can address a lady 
 in private, and deny it in public ; that you have 
 one story for us, and another for my daughter ! 
 
 Marlow. Daughter ! — this lady your daughter ! 
 
 Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter. My Kate, 
 whose else should she be ? 
 
 Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall
 
 i 
 
 388 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 squinting lady you were pleased to take me for. 
 {Curtseying.) She that you addressed as the mild, 
 modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, 
 forward, agreeable rattle of the ladies' club : ha, 
 ha, ha. 
 
 Marlozv. Zounds, there's no bearing this; it's 
 worse than death ! 
 
 Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, 
 will you give us leave to address you? As the 
 faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that 
 speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy : or 
 the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with 
 Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till 
 three in the morning ; ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Marlow. O, curse on my noisy head. I never 
 attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not 
 taken down. I must be gone. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall 
 not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced 
 to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know 
 she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? 
 We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. 
 [ They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene. 
 
 Enter Mrs. IIardcastle, Tony. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them 
 go, I care not. 
 
 Hard. Who gone ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, 
 Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down 
 with our modest visitor, here. 
 
 Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings?
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 389 
 
 As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not 
 have made a more prudent choice. 
 
 Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm 
 proud of the connexion. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, 
 he has not taken her fortune, that remains in this 
 family to console us for her loss. 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mer- 
 cenary ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 
 But you know, if your son when of age, refuses to 
 marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her 
 own disposal. 
 
 Hard. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not 
 thought proper to wait for his refusal. 
 
 Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hard, {aside.) What ! returned so soon? 
 I begin not to like it. 
 
 Hastings {To Hardcastle). For my late at- 
 tempt to fly off with your niece, let my present con- 
 fusion be my punishment. We are now come back, 
 to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By 
 her father's consent, I first paid her my addresses, 
 and our passions were first founded in duty. 
 
 Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been 
 obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppres- 
 sion. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to 
 give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I'm 
 now recovered from the delusion, and hope from 
 your tenderness what is denied me from a nearer 
 connexion.
 
 39° PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Mrs. Hani. Pshaw, pshaw ! this is all but the 
 whining end of a modern novel. 
 
 Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're 
 come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, 
 Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom 
 I now offer you ? 
 
 Tony. What signifies my refusing? You know 
 I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. 
 
 Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, 
 was likely to conduce to your improvement, I 
 concurred with your mother's desire to keep it 
 secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong 
 use, I must now declare, you have been of age 
 these three months. 
 
 Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? 
 
 Hard. Above three months. 
 
 Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of 
 my liberty. {Taking Miss Neville's hand.) Wit- 
 ness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony 
 Lumpkin, Esquire, of blank place, refuse you, 
 Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, 
 for my true and lawful wife. So Constance 
 Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony 
 Lumpkin is his own man again ! 
 
 Sir Charles. O brave 'Squire ! 
 
 Hastings. My worthy friend ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My undutiful offspring ! 
 
 Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy, 
 sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little 
 tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the 
 happiest man alive, if you would return me the 
 favour. 
 
 Hastings {To Miss HARDCASTLE). Come,
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 391 
 
 madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of 
 all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm 
 sure he loves you, and you must and shall have 
 him. 
 
 Hard. {Joining their hands.') And I say so, too. 
 And Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as 
 she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever 
 repent your bargain. So now to supper, to- 
 morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish 
 about us, and the Mistakes of the Night shall 
 be crowned with a merry morning ; so boy, take 
 her ; and as you have been mistaken in the mis- 
 tress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken 
 in the wife. 
 
 &W^
 
 39 2 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 1 
 
 ELL, having stooped to conquer with 
 
 success, 
 And gained a husband without aid 
 
 from dress, 
 Still as a Barmaid, I could wish it too, 
 As I have conquered him to conquer you : 
 And let me say, for all your resolution, 
 That pretty Barmaids have done execution. 
 Our life is all a play, composed to please, 
 " We have our exits and our entrances." 2 
 The first act shows the simple country maid, 
 Harmless and young, of everything afraid ; 
 Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action, 
 / hopes as how to give y on satisfaction. 
 Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 
 Th' unblushing Barmaid of a country inn. 
 Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 
 Talks loud, coquets 3 the guests, and scolds the 
 
 waiters. 
 Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 
 
 [' This Epilogue was spokea by Mrs. Bulkley as " Miss 
 Hardcastle. "J 
 
 [- As you like it, Act ii., Sc. 7. What follows is of course 
 a variation on the speech of Jaqucs.] 
 
 [ 3 Coquet = to entertain with compliments (Johnson).]
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 393 
 
 The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. 
 
 On 'Squires and Cits she there displays her arts, 
 
 And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts — 
 
 And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
 
 Even Common Councilmen forget to eat. 
 
 The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'Squire, 
 
 And madam now begins to hold it higher ; 
 
 Pretends to taste, at Operas cries caro, 
 
 And quits her Nancy Dawson^ for Che Faro, 2 
 
 Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride, 
 
 Swims round the room, the Heinel* of Cheapside : 
 
 Ogles and leers with artificial skill, 
 
 Till having lost in age the power to kill, 
 
 She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. 4 
 
 Such, through our lives, the eventful history — 
 
 The fifth and last act still remains for me. 
 
 The Barmaid now for your protection prays, 
 
 Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bayes. 4 
 
 [' See note, vol. i, p. 132.] 
 
 P Che faro senza Euridiee in Gliick's Or/eo, 1764.] 
 
 [ 3 See note, vol. i, p. 128.] 
 
 [ 4 The ace of spades, — first trump in Ombre.] 
 
 [ 5 A character in Buckingham's Rehearsal, 1672, intended 
 for Dryden. Here it is used by extension for "poet "or 
 "dramatist."]
 
 39* PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 1 
 
 To be spoken in the character of Tony Lumpkin. 
 
 BY J. CRADOCK ESQ. 8 
 
 \ ELL — now all's ended — and my com- 
 rades gone, 
 Pray what becomes of mother's nonly 
 son ? 
 
 A hopeful blade ! — in town I'll fix my station, 
 And try to make a bluster in the nation. 
 As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her, 
 Off — in a crack — I'll carry big Bet Bouncer. 
 
 Why should not I in the great world appear ? 
 I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year ; 
 No matter what a man may here inherit, 
 In London — 'gad, they've some regard for spirit. 
 I see the horses prancing up the streets, 
 And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; 
 Then hoikes to jiggs and pastimes ev'ry night — • 
 Not to the plays — they say it a'n't polite, 
 To Sadler's-Wells 3 perhaps, or Operas go, 
 And once by chance, to the roratorio. 
 Thus here and there, for ever up and down, 
 
 1 This came too late to be spoken (Goldsmith's note). 
 [ 2 See note, vol. i., p. 105.] 
 
 I 3 A popular pleasure garden by the New River Head, 
 the scene of Hogarth's Evening.}
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 395 
 
 We'll set the fashions too, to half the town ; 
 And then at auctions — money ne'er regard, 
 Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a yard : 
 Zounds, we shall make these London gentry say, 
 We know what's damned genteel, as well as they.
 
 SCENE FROM THE GRUMBLER, 
 A FARCE. 
 
 ff^Qo
 
 [The Grumhler, never printed, was adapted by Goldsmith 
 from Le Grandeur of Brueys and Palaprat, or rather from 
 Sir C. Sedley's version of that play, produced in 1702. It 
 was written for John Quick, (d. 1831) the actor of "Tony 
 Lumpkin," and produced at his benefit, in May, 1773. Prior 
 printed the accompanying scene in the miscellaneous Works, 
 1837, from the Licenser's copy. It exhibits the final expe- 
 dient adopted by the heroine, who is in love with Sourby's 
 son, to free herself from the unwelcome proposals of the 
 father.]
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sourby ( The Grumbler) 
 
 Octavio (his Son) 
 
 Wentworth (Brothcr-i n-Laiv to 
 
 Sourby) 
 Dancing Master (called Signior 
 
 Capriole in the Bills) 
 Scamper (Servant) 
 Clarissa (in love with Octavio) 
 Jenny (her Maid) 
 
 Mr. Quick. 
 Mr. Davis. 
 
 Mr. Ovvenson. 
 
 Mr. King. 
 
 Mr. Saunders. 
 
 Miss Helme. 
 
 Miss Pearce.
 
 SCENE FROM THE GRUMBLER. 
 
 Enter Scamter (Sourby's servant) to Sourby, 
 and his intended wife's maid Jenny. 
 
 Scamper. 
 IR, a gentleman would speak with you. 
 Jenny. Good! Here comes Scamper ; 
 — [Aside.) he'll manage you, I'll war- 
 rant me. 
 Sourby. Who is it ? 
 
 Scamper. He says his name is Monsieur Ri — Ri 
 — stay, sir, I'll go and ask him again. 
 
 Sourby (Ptilling him by the cars). Take that, 
 sirrah, by the way. 
 
 Scamper. Ahi ! Ahi ! [Exit. 
 
 Jenny. Sir, you have torn off his hair, so that 
 
 he must now have a wig: you have pulled Ins 
 
 ears off; but there are none of them to be had for 
 
 money ! 
 
 Sourby. I'll teach him! — 'lis certainly Mr. 
 Rigaut, my notary ; I know who it is, let him 
 come in. Could he find no time but this to bring 
 me money? Plague take the blockhead !
 
 4C2 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Enter Dancing Master and his Fiddler. 
 
 Sourby. This is not my man. Who are you, 
 with your compliments? 
 
 Dancing Master {Bowing often). I am called 
 Rigaudon, sir, at your service. 
 
 Sourby { To Jenny). Have not I seen that face 
 somewhere before? 
 
 Jenny. There are a thousand people like one 
 another. 
 
 Sourby. Well, Mr. Rigaudon, what is your busi- 
 ness? 
 
 Dancing Master. To give you this letter from 
 Madame Clarissa. 
 
 Sourby. Give it to me — I would fain know who 
 taught Clarissa to fold a letter thus. What con- 
 tains it? 
 
 Jenny {Aside; while he unfolds the letter). A 
 lover, I believe, never complained of that before. 
 
 Sourby {Reads). "Everybody says I am to 
 marry the most brutal of men. I would disabuse 
 them ; and for that reason you and I must begin 
 the ball to-night." She is mad ! 
 
 Dancing Master. Go on, pray, sir. 
 
 Sourby {Reads). "You told me you cannot 
 dance ; but I have sent you the first man in the 
 world." [Sourby looks at him from head to foot. 
 
 Dancing Master. Oh Lord, sir ! 
 
 Sourby {Reads). " Who will teach you in less 
 than an hour enough to serve your purpose." I 
 learn to dance ! 
 
 Dancing Master. Finish, if you please. 
 
 Sourby {Reads). " And if you love me, you will
 
 SCE.VE FROM THE GRUMBLER. 4°3 
 
 learn the Allemande." l The Allemande ! I, the 
 Allemande ! Mr. the first man in the world, do 
 you know you are in some danger here ? 
 
 Dancing Master. Come, sir, in a quarter of an 
 hour, you shall dance to a miracle. 
 
 Sourby. Mr. Rigaudon, do you know I will 
 send you out of the window if I call my servants? 
 
 Dancing Master {Biddinghisinan play). Come, 
 brisk, this little prelude will put you in humour ; 
 you must be held by the hand ; or have you some 
 steps of your own ? 
 
 Sourby. Unless you put up that d d fiddle, 
 
 I'll beat it about your ears ! 
 
 Dancing A/aster. Zounds, sir ! if you are there- 
 abouts, you shall dance presently — I say presently. 
 
 Sourby. Shall I dance, villain ? 
 
 Dancing Master. Yes. By the heavens above 
 
 shall you dance. I have orders from Clarissa to 
 
 make you dance. She has paid me, and dance 
 
 you shall ; first let him go out. 
 
 [He draws his sword, and puts it under his arm. 
 
 Sourby. Ah ! I'm dead. What a madman has 
 this woman sent me ! 
 
 fenny. I see I must interpose. Stay you there, 
 sir ; let me speak to him ; sir, pray do us the 
 favour to go and tell the lady that it's disagreeable 
 to my master. 
 
 Dancing Master. I will have him dance. 
 
 Sourby. The rascal ! the rascal ! 
 
 Jenny. Consider, if you please, my master is a 
 grave man. 
 
 Dancing Master. I'll have him dance. 
 
 [' A German dance movement in triple time.]
 
 464 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Jenny. You may stand in need of him. 
 
 Sourby {Taking her aside). Yes, tell him that 
 when he will, without costing him a farthing, I'll 
 bleed and purge him his bellyfull. 
 
 Dancing Master. I have nothing to do with 
 that ; I'll have him dance, or have his blood. 
 
 Sourby. The rascal ! {muttering). 
 
 Jenny. Sir, I can't work upon him ; the mad- 
 man will not hear reason ; some harm will happen 
 — we are alone. 
 
 Sourby. 'Tis very true. 
 
 Jenny. Look on him ; he has an ill look. 
 
 Sourby. He has so {trembling). 
 
 Dancing Master. Make haste, I say, make 
 haste. 
 
 Sourby. Help ! neighbours ! murder ! 
 Jenny. Aye, you may cry for help ; do you 
 know that all your neighbours would be glad to 
 see you robbed and your throat cut ? Believe me 
 sir, two Allemande steps may save your life. 
 
 Sourby. But if it should come to be known, I 
 should be taken for a fool. 
 
 Jenny. Love excuses all follies ; and I have 
 heard say that when Hercules was in love, he 
 spun for Queen Omphale. 
 
 Sourby. Yes, Plercules spun, but Hercules did 
 not dance the Allemande. 
 
 Jenny. Well, you must tell him so ; the gentle- 
 man will teach you another. 
 
 Dancing Master. Will you have a minuet, sir? 
 
 Sourby. A minuet ; no. 
 
 Dancing A/aster. The loure. l 
 
 [ l Loure, a grave dance a deux tem/s.]
 
 Scene erom the grumbler. &s 
 
 Sourby. The loure ; no. 
 
 Dancing Master. The passay ! 
 
 Sourby. The passay ; no. 
 
 Dancing Master. What then ? The trocanny, 
 the tricotez, 1 the rigadon ? Come, choose, choose. 
 
 Sourby. No, no, no, I like none of these. 
 
 Dancing Master. You would have a grave, 
 serious dance, perhaps ? 
 
 Sourby. Yes, a serious one, if there be any — 
 but a very serious dance. 
 
 Dancing Master. Well, the courante, the horn- 
 pipe, the brocane, the saraband ? 
 
 Sourby. No, no, no ! 
 
 Dancing Master. What the devil then will you 
 have? But make haste, or — death? 
 
 Sourby. Come on, then, since it must be so; 
 I'll learn a few steps of the — the— 
 
 Dancing Master. What, of the— the— 
 
 Sourby. I know not what. 
 
 Dancing Master. You mock me, sir ; you shall 
 dance the Allemande, since Clarissa will have it 
 so, or — 
 
 [He leads him about, the fiddle flaying tke 
 Allemande. 
 
 Sourby. I shall be laughed at by the whole 
 town if it should be known. I am determined, 
 for this frolic, to deprive Clarissa of that invalu- 
 able blessing, the possession of my person. 
 
 Dancing Master. Come, come, sir, move, move. 
 
 {Teaching him.) 
 
 Sourby. Cockatrice ! 
 
 P Tricotel:, an old lively dance.]
 
 406 PLAYS OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Dancing Master. One, two, three ! (Teaching.) 
 Sourby. A d d, infernal 
 
 Enter Wentworth. 
 
 Sourby. Oh ! brother, you are in good time to 
 free me from this cursed bondage. 
 
 Wentworth. How ! for shame, brother, at your 
 age to be thus foolish. 
 
 Sourby. As I hope for mercy — 
 
 Wentworth. For shame, for shame — practising 
 at sixty what should have been finished at six ! 
 
 Dancing Master. He's not the only grown 
 jrentleman I have had in hand. 
 
 Wentworth. Brother, brother, you'll be the 
 mockery of the whole city. 
 
 Sourby. Eternal babbler ! hear me ; this cursed 
 confounded villain will make me dance perforce. 
 
 Wentworth. Perforce ! 
 
 Sourby. Yes ; by order, he says, of Clarissa ; 
 but since I now find she is unworthy, I give her 
 up — renounce her for ever.
 
 CHISWICK PRESS \— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.
 
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