A time there was, when glory was my guide-
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside:
Unaw'd by power, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honor dear;
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honor is no more
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine!

peu ont pu éviter les coups violents et imprévus ? Moi qui, dans la fleur de l'âge, avois tenu contre toute sollicitation, toute largesse. toute crainte, toute force, tout crédit, me voilà, dans ma vieillesse, renversé par les douces insinuations de ce grand homme si plein de bonté pour moi, et qui a bien voulu s'abaisser à mon égard jusqu'à d'instantes prières. Après tout, si les dieux mêmes ne lui ont pu rien refuser, souffriroit-on, moi qui ne suis qu'un homme, que j'eusse osé lui refuser quelque chose? Il faudra donc qu'après avoir vécu sans reproche jusqu'à soixante ans, sorti chevalier romain de ma maison, j'y rentre comédien! Ah! j'ai vécu trop d'un jour! O fortune, excessive dans les biens comme dans les maux, si tu avois résolu de flétrir ma réputation, et de m'enlever cruellement la gloire que je m'étois acquise par les lettres, pourquoi ne m'as-tu pas produit sur le théâtre lorsque je pouvois céder avec moins de confusion, et que la vigueur de l'âge me mettoit en état de plaire au peuple et à César? Mais maintenant qu'apporté-je sur la scène? La bonne grâce du corps? l'avantage de la taille la vivacité de l'action? l'agrément de la voix? Rien de tout cela. De même que le lierre, embrassant un arbre, l'épuise insensiblement et le tue, ainsi la vieillesse, par les années dont elle me charge, me laisse sans force et presque sans vie. Semblable à un sépulcre, je ne conserve de moi que le nom."

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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 three score 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 honor ends.

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EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure 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 make full many a bitter pill go down.

1 From The good-natur'd Man, 1768. I ascribe the epilogue to Goldsmith on the evidence of this note: "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."— This comedy was first acted at Covent-garden theater on the 29th of January, 1768. The epilogue was spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, who had personated Miss Richland. Line 18. Warwick-lane. The site of the former college of physicians. Line 19. Go, ask your manager, etc. - Colman, the manager of Coventgarden theater, had then written about ten prologues and epilogues; Garrick, the joint-patentee of Drury-lane theater, had written about sixty'

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DD

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.'

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"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."

66

What I? dear sir," the doctor interposes;

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.”—“ Who, me? your pardon;
Those things are not our forte at Covent-garden."
Our author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance,
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,
He eyes the center, where his friends sit snug-

His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;

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He 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"-
Blame where you must, be candid where you can;
And be each critic the good-natur'd man.

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