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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.

"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 bow'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]

This stanza, which is not in the contemporary versions, was given to Bishop Percy, for his edition of the Works (18c1), by Richard Archdal, Esq., who had received it from the author.]

"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.

"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?

72 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog

"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."


GOOD 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.

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.

First printed in The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766, i. 175.]

[ Cf. An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, d. 57 ante.]

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

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WHEN lovely Woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is-to die.


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

[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 Fréron.

Devinez ce qu'il arriva ?

Ce fut le serpent qui creva."]

Sung, very inappropriately, by Olivia in chap. v. of The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766, ii. 78, where it was first printed.]

The Sister, 1769, in which this Epilogue was first printed, was a comedy by Mrs. Charlotte Lenox (1720-1804), produced at Covent Garden, 18th February, 1769.]

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


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.
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?

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?

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