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EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
This tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.2
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a·bookseller's hack;
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
i From The Haunch of Venison, &c. 1776.-P. C.
2 This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but, having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. [This epitaph is an imitation of the French, (La Mort du Sieur Etienne,) or of an epigram in Swift's Miscellanies, xiii. 372.-FORSTER.)
STANZAS ON WOMAN.1
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.
1 See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xxiv.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OP
• SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.'1
Ah me! when shall I
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: Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
1 Sir, - I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of “She Stoops to Conquer;' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called “The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own handwriting, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir,
Your humble Servant,
JAMES BOSWELL. A SONNET.1
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 followed my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
The wretch condemn’d with life to part,
Still, still on hope relies;
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way ;
Emits a brighter ray.
See The Bee, No. iii. Imitated from the French of Saint Pavin, whose poems were collectively edited in 1759.-P. C.
(See the Oratorio of The Captivity.]
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain; To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;
Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.
1 See the Oratorio of The Captivity.