Goldsmith's miscellaneous works. Poems and plays. The vicar of Wakefield. The citizen of the world. Essays, &c. &c

Front matter

GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. POEMS AND PLAYS. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. ESSAYS, &c. &c. LONDON: WILLIAM SMITH, 113, FLEET STREET. HDCCCXLI. LONDON I BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. i MEMOIR. Oliver Goldsmith was bom on the 29th day of November, 1728*, at a place called Pallas, in the parish of Forney, and county of Longford, Ireland. His father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, was rector of the parish of Kilkenny West. He had seven children, five sons and two daughters. Oliver, the second son, was born very unexpectedly, after an interval of seven years from the former child. Mr. Goldsmith's income was but small; and having strained his means to the uttermost to procure a learned education for his eldest son, Henry, whose abilities were very superior, and of whose success he had conceived the most sanguine hopes, he could only propose to bring up Oliver to some mercantile employment.

With this view he was instructed in reading, writing, and arithmetic, by a schoolmaster in his father's village, who had been a quarter-master in the army in Queen Anne's wars in that detachment whieh was sent to Spain. Having travelled over a considerable part of Europe, and being of a very romantic turn, he used to entertain Oliver with his adventures; and the impressions these made on his scholar were believed by the family to have given him that wandering and unsettled turn which appeared in his future life. His fondness for books and learning, and a taste for poetry, which so early as eight or nine years old was mani fested by poetical attempts, were encouraged, and he was placed under the care of the Rev. Mr.Griffitl, then school master of Elphin ; and at length his father consented to change his destination, and to send him to the university ; some of his relations, who were very respectable clergymen, kindly offered to contribute towards the expense, particularly the Rev. Thomas Contavine, a gentleman of distinguished learning and good preferment, who had married Oliver's aunt.

He was removed to the school of Athlone, where he continued about two years, and was then placed under the care of the Rev. Patrick Hughes, at Edge wor thstown, in the county of Longford, where he was fitted for the university. In his last journey to this school he met with the adventure on which he after wards sounded his comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer." He reached Ardagh at night-fall, and, inquiring for the best house in the place, was answered in a literal sense, and, instead of being sent to an inn, was directed to a private house. Here the servants, supposing him to be a friend of their master's, admitted him and took charge of his horse ; and Oliver, walking into the parlour, found the host at the fire-side. This gentleman soon perceived the mistake, and being fond of a laugh, humoured the joke.

Epilogue

TO THE COMEDY OF " THE SISTERS.1 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 ; Warm'd up each bustling scene, and iu her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking, Have pleased our eyes, and saved 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 STANZAS ON WOMAN. 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. my cue : The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, you. [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.

Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, aud false spouses ! Statesmen with bridles on ; and, close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'cm : 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 every thing — but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on. Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wondrous 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. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad — When he put on his clothes. c MISCELLANIES. 20 Who frowns and talks and swears,with round parade, Looking, as who should say, dam'me ! who's afraid ? Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am, [Mimicking. 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 in Yon critic, too — but whither do I run ? [black ! 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.

Prologue

TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY; WRITTEN RY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ. Spoken by Mr. Quick, in the Character of a Sailor. In these bold times, 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 fail-, and patiently— go simpling ; 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's order'd me before, To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost ! This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : [Upjier Gallery.

There mangroves spread, aud larger than I've seen 'em — [Pit. Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em [Balconies. Here ill-conditioned oranges abound — [Stage. And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground. [Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : 1 heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 0, there the people are — best keep my distance ; Our Captain, gentle natives ! craves assistance ; Our ship's well-stored ; — in yonder creek we've laid His Honour is no mercenary trader. [her, This is his first adventure ; lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, aud brought from Equally fit for gallantry and war. [far, What ! no reply to promises so ample ? I'd best step back — and order up a sample. EPILOGUE* TO THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.

Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley. As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights 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 : Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teased 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 ; " 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 placed 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 a wray, While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, He 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 : 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-natured Man. AN EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. There is a place — so Ariosto sings — A treasury for lost and missing things ; Lost human wits have places there assign'd 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 I 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, 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. 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 doats on dancing, Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on, Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

This tomb, inscribed 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. * See p. 48. MISCELLANIES. 21 I 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 pays his debts. The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored — As " Dam'me, Sir ! " and, " Sir, I wear a sword ! " Here lesson'd for awhile, 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. Yes, he's far gone : — and yet some pity fix, The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood, And purchased strength from its increasing load. Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ! SONG. BY A MAN. Virtue, on herself relying.

Every passion hush'd 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. WOMAN SPEAKER. Yet, ah ! what terrors frown'd upon her fate — Death, with its formidable band, Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, Determined 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 defaced the shrine. With unavailing grief, Despairing of relief, Her weeping children round Beheld each hour THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

. Death's growing power, And trembled as he frown'd, The following may more properly be termed a compila tion 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 composed in a period of time equally short. 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. overture. — A solemn Dirge- Air. — Trio.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise, And waken every note of woe! When truth and virtue reach the 6kies, 'Tis ours to weep the want below. SONG. — BY A MAN. 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, Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings I If virtue fail her counsel sage, CHORUS. When truth and virtue, S;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 join'd 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 ; [to fame.

Then all their trophies last — and flattery turns 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 throughaworld 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 [fair. To Death's great court, the prospect seems more "sis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open To take us in when we have drain'd 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. Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb ; How hast thou left mankind for Heaven ! E'en now reproach and faction mourn, And, wondering how their rage was born, Request to be forgiven ! Alas ! they never had thy hate ; Unmoved, 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 urged thy end : MISCELLANIES. 22 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 ; May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest May blissful, endless peace be thine above ! [love, MAN SPEAKER.

First of tlie 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 Or how shall age support its feeble fire? [bread, 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. SONG. — BY A WOMAN. Lovely, lasting Peace, below, Comforter of ev'ry woe, Heav'nly 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. 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. 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 silent sorrow dwell : Want pass'd for merit at her door, WOMAN SPEAKER. In decent dress, and coarsely clean, The pious matron next was seen, 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 relieved, nor sought my praise, Contented with her own.

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 grey, To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ; And calm Religion shall repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there. Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree To blend their virtues while they think of thee. Air. — Chorus. 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." Let us — let all the world agree, To profit by resembling thee.

Part II. Song By

A WOMAN. Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless, My morning and my evening song. overture. — Pastorale. And when in death my vows shall cease, My children shall the note prolong. MAN SPEAKER. Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent Reflects new glories on his breast, [stream Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest ; Where sculptured 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 grey, 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 the towers of Kew, Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

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 awhile, and sullenly distress'd, 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 billow'd main ; 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 ; I'll seek that less inhospitable coast, And lay my body where my limbs were lost." SONG. BY A MAN. 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.

CHORUS. Te shady walks, ye waving greens, Te nodding towers, ye fairy scenes, Let all your echoes now deplore, That she who form'd your beauties is no more. MISCELLANIES. 23 Pretends to taste, at operas cries euro ! And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro : Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride, Swims round the room, the Heinelle 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. Such through our lives the eventful history — The fifth and last act still remains for me : The bar-maid now for your protection prays, Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays. 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, Every glance that warms the soul, In sweet succession charms the senses, While pity harmonized 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 : [claim, The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows pro- There promised a lover to come — but, ah me ! 'Twas Death — 'twas the death of my mistress that came.

EPILOGUE.

TO " SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Intended to be spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss Galley. But ever, for ever, her image shall last, I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom ; On her graveshall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her Enters Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enters Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the Audience. tomb." MRS. BULKLEY. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here ? SONG. — BY A WOMAN. Pastorale. With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May No more will her crook or her temples adorn ; MISS CATLEY. The Epilogue. For who'd wear a garland when she is away, When she is removed aud shall never return ? MRS. BULKLEY. The Epilogue ? On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom, MISS CATLEY.

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. MRS. BULKLEY. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue, / bring it. CHORUS. On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed, We'll rifie the spring of its earliest bloom, MISS CATLEY. And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, The tears of her country shall water her tomb. 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.

EPILOGUE.

TO " SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." 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. Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, in the character of Miss Hardcastle. Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, As I have conquer'd him to conquer you : And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty bar-maids have done execution. Our life is all a play, composed to please ; " We have our exits and our entrances." The first act shows the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action, " I hopes as how to give you satisfaction."

Her second act displays a livelier scene, — The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, Who whisks about the house, at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 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, E'en common-couneilmen forget to eat. The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher ; 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. 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. MISCELLANIES. 24 SONG. Air. — Cotillon. «'AH ME ! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME?" Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye. Pity take tfn your swain so clever. Who without your aid must die. Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu ! Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer." Ah 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.

Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho. ho ! T)a 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 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 hand : 0 fatal news to tell, Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. But I will rally, and combat the miner : Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS, IN THE CHARACTER OF MISS CATLEY. HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. 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.

Hold ! 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 eclipsed the honours of my head ; That I found humour in a piebald vest, Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. [Takes off his mask. 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 pursued ! 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 ? Air. — A bonny young Lad is my Joeki/.