Chapter IX: Epilogue: To ‘she Stoops to Conquer’

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, 5
That pretty Bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, compos’d to please,
‘We have our exits and our entrances.’
The First Act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of ev’ry thing afraid; 10
Blushes when hir’d, and, with unmeaning action,
‘I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.’
Her Second Act displays a livelier scene—
Th’ unblushing Bar-maid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 15
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: 20
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_, 25
And quits her _Nancy Dawson_, for _Che faro_,
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, 30
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 Bayes. 35

PORTRAIT OF GOLDSMITH

AFTER REYNOLDS

(Vignette to ‘Retaliation’)

RETALIATION

A POEM

OF old, when Scarron 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 shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; 5 Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour: Our Cumberland’s sweet-bread its place shall obtain, And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: 10 Our Garrick’s a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: To make out the dinner, full certain I am, That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; That Hickey’s a capon, and by the same rule, 15 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; 20 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, 25 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; 30 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, 35 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._ 40 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 forc’d him along, 45 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. 50

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb; Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball, 55 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. 60

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, 65 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; 70 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 75 To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: 80 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, 85 Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover; 90 Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confess’d without rival to shine: 95 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. 100 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 105 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 swallow’d what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; 110 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, and Woodfalls so grave, 115 What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts you rais’d, While he was be-Roscius’d, and you were be-prais’d! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies: 120 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, 125 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: 130 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe can’t accuse him 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! 135 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; 140 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: When they talk’d of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 145 He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT

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, Counsellor 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._”’

HERE Whitefoord 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; 150 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 _bons mots_ half a column might fill; A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; 155 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’; 160 Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfall 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, 165 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._ 170

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.’

SONG

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN

‘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.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner: 5
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.

TRANSLATION

CHASTE 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 loves:—the patriot bird pursues 5
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. 10
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.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD
CLARE

THANKS, 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 5 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 _virtù_; As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show: 10 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 I hear you pronounce This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try, 15 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my Lord, it’s no bounce: I protest in my turn, It’s a truth—and your Lordship may ask Mr. Byrne. To go on with my tale—as I gaz’d on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch; 20 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 M—r—’s: But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 25 With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There’s H—d, and C—y, and H—rth, and H—ff, 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. 30 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, 35 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. ‘What have we got here?—Why, this is good eating! Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting?’ 40 ‘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, 45 ‘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. 50 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; 55 No stirring—I beg—my dear friend—my dear friend! Thus snatching his hat, he brush’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’; 60 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’d with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 65 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; 70 ‘For I knew it,’ he cried, ‘both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t’other with Thrale; 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, 75 They[’re] both of them merry and authors like you; The one writes the _Snarler_, the other the _Scourge_; Some think he writes _Cinna_—he owns to _Panurge._’ While thus he describ’d them by trade, and by name, They enter’d and dinner was serv’d as they came. 80

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; 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, 85 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; 90 And, ‘Madam,’ quoth he, ‘may this bit be my poison, 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, 95 ‘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: 100 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, ‘Though splitting, I’ll still keep a corner for thot.’ ‘We’ll all keep a corner,’ the lady cried out; 105 ‘We’ll all keep a corner,’ was echoed about. While thus we resolv’d, and the pasty delay’d, With look 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. 110 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— 115 And now that I think on’t, the story may stop. To be plain, my good Lord, it’s but labour misplac’d 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; 120 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.

EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL

THIS 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; 5
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. 10

THE CLOWN’S REPLY

JOHN 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, 5
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.’

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON

HERE 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.