No More Learning

A brain of feather? very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed:
A just comparison—proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse:
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air:
And here my simile unites;
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand,
By classic authors termed Caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses:
To wit,—most wond'rously endued,
No poppy-water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore;
Add, too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then:—
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twined
Denote him of the reptile kind,
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites:
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep;
This difference only,—as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript;
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover Merc'ry had a failing;
Well! what of that? out with it. —Stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance:
Our modern bards! why, what a pox
Are they—but senseless stones and blocks?

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.

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?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!
No—I will act—I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns:
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme,—
"Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! —soft—'twas but a dream. "
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating,
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavill'd at his image in the flood.
"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick shanks,
They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead;
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head:
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! —I'm told horns are the fashion now. "
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew;
Hoicks! hark forward! came thundering from behind,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze:
At length, his silly head, so prized before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself—like me.

[_Taking a jump through the stage door. _

[Illustration: Interior scene of a haberdashery. ]

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor—
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wond'rous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways—
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her—
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead—
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more—
She had not died to-day.

* * * * *

EPIGRAM,


ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

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.

EPILOGUE


TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. "

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 everything 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-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! _
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.

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 heard 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 way,
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_.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Seated woman reading a book. ]

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.

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,
As I hope to be saved! —without thinking on asses. "

* * * * *

SONG.


The wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on Hope relies;
And every pang that rends the heart
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.


STANZAS.


Weeping, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight,
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th'approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE


TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. "

INTENDED TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.

_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_.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?

MISS CATLEY.

The Epilogue.

MRS. BULKLEY.

The Epilogue?

MISS CATLEY.

Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue, _I_ bring it.

MISS CATLEY.

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.

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.

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.

_Air. —Cotillion. _


Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye.
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu!
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho!
_Da 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: O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.

MISS CATLEY.

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.

_Air. —A bonny young Lad is my Jocky. _

I sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay;
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one _va toute_:
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
"I hold the odds. —Done, done, with you, with you. "
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,
"My Lord,—Your Lordship misconceives the case. "
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner,
"I wish I'd been called in a little sooner:"
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty,
Come end the contest here, and aid my party.

MISS CATLEY.

_Air. —Ballinamony_

Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;
For—sure I don't wrong you—you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back.
For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,
And death is your only preventive:
Your hands and your voices for me.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?

MISS CATLEY.

And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

MRS. BULKLEY.

Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.

And now with late repentance,
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.

[_Exeunt. _




THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.

A COMEDY.


PREFACE.

When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was strongly
prepossessed in favour of the poets of the last age, and strove to
imitate them. The term _genteel comedy_ was then unknown amongst us,
and little more was desired by an audience, than nature and humour, in
whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous. The author of the
following scenes never imagined that more would be expected of him, and
therefore to delineate character has been his principal aim. Those who
know any thing of composition, are sensible, that in pursuing humour,
it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of the mean; I was even
tempted to look for it in the master of a spunging-house: but in
deference to the public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate,
the scene of the bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In
deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a
particular way, the scene is here restored. The author submits it to
the reader in his closet; and hopes that too much refinement will not
banish humour and character from ours, as it has already done from the
French theatre. Indeed the French comedy is now become so very elevated
and sentimental, that it has not only banished humour and _Molière_
from the stage, but it has banished all spectators too.

Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the public for the
favourable reception which the Good-Natured Man has met with: and to
Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be
improper to assure any who shall hereafter write for the theatre, that
merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his
protection.

PROLOGUE.


WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON.

SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY.

Press'd by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the general toil of humankind;
With cool submission joins the labouring train,
And social sorrow loses half its pain.
Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share
This bustling season's epidemic care;
Like Cæsar's pilot, dignified by fate,
Toss'd in one common storm with all the great;
Distress'd alike, the statesman and the wit,
When one a borough courts, and one the pit.
The busy candidates for power and fame,
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes just the same
Disabled both to combat, or to fly,
Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.
Uncheck'd, on both, loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.
Th'offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
For that blessed year when all that vote may rail;
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss,
Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss.
"This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,"
Says swelling Crispin, "begged a cobbler's vote! "
"This night our wit" the pert apprentice cries,
"Lies at my feet: I hiss him, and he dies! "
The great, 'tis true, can charm th'electing tribe;
The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe.
Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold;
But, confident of praise, if praise be due,
Trusts, without fear, to merit, and to you.


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.


MEN.


MR. HONEYWOOD.
CROAKER.
LOFTY.
SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD.
LEONTINE.
JARVIS.
BUTLER.
BAILIFF.
DUBARDIEU.
POSTBOY.


WOMEN.


MISS RICHLAND.
OLIVIA.
MRS. CROAKER.
GARNET.
LANDLADY.

SCENE—_London. _

[Illustration:

"BUTLER. —_Sir, I'll not stay in
the family with Jonathan. _"—_p. _ 271.
]




ACT I.


SCENE I. —_An Apartment in_ YOUNG HONEYWOOD'S _House_.

_Enter_ SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD _and_ JARVIS.

SIR WILL. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest bluntness.
Fidelity like yours, is the best excuse for every freedom.

JARVIS. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too, when I hear
you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as your
nephew, my master. All the world loves him.

SIR WILL. Say rather, that he loves all the world; that is his fault.

JARVIS. I'm sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are,
though he has not seen you since he was a child.

SIR WILL. What signifies his affection to me? or how can I be proud of
a place in a heart where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy
entrance?

JARVIS. I grant that he's rather too good-natured; that he's too much
every man's man; that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the
next with another; but whose instructions may he thank for all this?

SIR WILL. Not mine, sure! My letters to him during my employment in
Italy, taught him only that philosophy which might prevent, not defend,
his errors.

JARVIS. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, I'm sorry they taught him
any philosophy at all; it has only served to spoil him. This same
philosophy is a good horse in a stable, but an errant jade on a
journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name on't,
I'm always sure he's going to play the fool.

SIR WILL. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I entreat
you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature arises rather from his fears of
offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving
happy.

JARVIS. What it rises from, I don't know. But, to be sure, every body
has it, that asks it.

SIR WILL. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time a
concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his
dissipation.

JARVIS. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them all. He
call his extravagance, generosity; and his trusting every body,
universal benevolence. It was but last week he went security for a
fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted
mu-mu-munificence; ay, that was the name he gave it.

SIR WILL. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, though with very
little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I
have taken up the security. Now, my intention is, to involve him in
fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself into real calamity;
to arrest him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then
let him see which of his friends will come to his relief.

JARVIS. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, every
groan of his would be music to me; yet, faith, I believe it impossible.
I have tried to fret him myself every morning these three years; but,
instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does
to his hair-dresser.

SIR WILL. We must try him once more, however, and I'll go this instant
to put my scheme into execution; and I don't despair of succeeding, as
by your means, I can have frequent opportunities of being about him,
without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good
will to others should produce so much neglect of himself, as to require
correction! Yet, we must touch his weakness with a delicate hand. There
are some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed
out the vice without eradicating the virtue.

_Exit. _

JARVIS. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not without
reason that the world allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes
his hopeful nephew; the strange, good-natured, foolish,
open-hearted—And yet, all his faults are such that one loves him still
the better for them.

_Enter_ HONEYWOOD.

HONEYW. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this morning!

JARVIS. You have no friends.

HONEYW. Well; from my acquaintance, then?

JARVIS. (_Pulling out bills. _) A few of our usual cards of compliment,
that's all. This bill from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this
from the little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great
deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed.

HONEYW. That I don't know; but I am sure we were at a great deal of
trouble in getting him to lend it.

JARVIS. He has lost all patience.

HONEYW. Then he has lost a very good thing.

JARVIS. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor gentleman
and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth for
a while at least.

HONEYW. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the meantime?
Must I be cruel because he happens to be importunate; and, to relieve
his avarice, leave them to insupportable distress?

JARVIS. 'Sdeath, sir, the question now is, how to relieve yourself.
Yourself—Haven't I reason to be out of my senses, when I see things
going at sixes and sevens?

HONEYW. Whatever reason you may have for being out of your senses, I
hope you'll allow that I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in
mine.

JARVIS. You're the only man alive in your present situation that could
do so—Every thing upon the waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine
fortune gone already, and upon the point of being given to your rival.

HONEYW. I'm no man's rival.

JARVIS. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you; your own
fortune almost spent; and nothing but pressing creditors, false
friends, and a pack of drunken servants that your kindness has made
unfit for any other family.

HONEYW. Then they have the more occasion for being in mine.

JARVIS. So! What will you have done with him that I caught stealing
your plate in the pantry? In the fact; I caught him in the fact.

HONEYW. In the fact? If so, I really think that we should pay him his
wages, and turn him off.

JARVIS. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog; we'll hang him, if
it be only to frighten the rest of the family.

HONEYW. No, Jarvis: it's enough that we have lost what he has stolen,
let us not add to the loss of a fellow-creature.

JARVIS. Very fine; well, here was the footman just now, to complain of
the butler; he says he does most work, and ought to have most wages.

HONEYW. That's but just: though perhaps here comes the butler to
complain of the footman.

JARVIS. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the scullion to the
privy-counsellor. If they have a bad master, they keep quarrelling with
him; if they have a good master they keep quarrelling with one another.

_Enter_ BUTLER _drunk_.

BUTLER. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jonathan: you must part
with him, or part with me, that's the ex-ex-position of the matter,
sir.

HONEYW. Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault, good Phillip?

BUTLER. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I shall have my morals
corrupted, by keeping such company.

HONEYW. Ha! ha! he has such a diverting way—

JARVIS. O! quite amusing.

BUTLER. I find my wines a-going, sir; and liquors don't go without
mouths, sir; I hate a drunkard, sir.

HONEYW. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon that another time, so go
to bed now.

JARVIS. To bed! Let him go to the devil.

BUTLER. Begging your honour's pardon, and begging your pardon, master
Jarvis, I'll not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I have enough to
do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. I
came on purpose to tell you.

HONEYW. Why didn't you show him up, blockhead?

BUTLER. Show him up, sir? With all my heart, sir. Up or down, all's one
to me.

_Exit. _

JARVIS.