"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 :
-“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,
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for thot."
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
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 misplaced
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning—
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.
[ Cf. 2 Henry IV. Act i. Sc. I.]
PART OF A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND
SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS
A ROMAN KNIGHT WHOM CAESAR FORCED UPON THE
PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS 1
WHAT! 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,
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 line 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.
[First printed at pp. 176-7 of Goldsmith's Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning, 1759 (ch. xii.-"Of the Stage"). The original lines are to be found in the Saturnalia of Macrobius, lib. ii. cap. vii. ed. Zeunii, pp. 369-70.]
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND
WITH LIGHTNING1
(Imitated from the Spanish)
SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT GARDEN
SAY, 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.
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.
[ First printed in The Bee, 6th October, 1759.]
[First printed in The Bee, 13th October, 1759. It is an adaptation of some lines headed Etrene à Iris in Part iii. of the Ménagiana.]
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