by Paul Keegan
Unpleasing truth: Death hunts us from our birth
In view, and men, like foxes, take to earth.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH from Retaliation
[Edmund Burke]
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the Universe, narrow’d his mind,
And to party gave up, what was meant for mankind.
Tho’ fraught with all learning, kept straining his throat,
To persuade Tommy Townsend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Tho’ 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.
In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d, or in place, Sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
[David Garrick]
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confest without rival to shine,
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 beplaister’d, with rouge, his own natural red.
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;
Tho’ secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
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 pleased he could whistle them back.
Of praise, a mere glutton, he swallowed what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
‘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,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave?
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais’d,
While he was beroscius’d, and you were beprais’d?
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:
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.
[Joshua Reynolds]
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;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly staring,
When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk’d of their Raphaels, Corregios and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN On Lady Anne Hamilton 1777
Pray how did she look? Was she pale, was she wan?
She was blooming and red as a cherry – poor Anne.
Did she eat? Did she drink? Yes, she drank up a can,
And ate very near a whole partridge – poor Anne.
Pray what did she do? Why, she talked to each man
And flirted with Morpeth and Breanebie – poor Anne.
Pray how was she drest? With a turban and fan,
With ear-rings, with chains, and with bracelets – poor Anne.
And how went she home? In a good warm sedan
With a muff and a cloak and a tippet – poor Anne!
SAMUEL JOHNSON Prologue to Hugh Kelly’s ‘A Word to the Wise’
This night presents a play, which publick rage,
Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage;
From zeal or malice now no more we dread,
For English vengeance wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards, with pitying eye,
The man whom fate has laid, where all must lye.
To wit, reviving from its author’s dust,
Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just:
Let no resentful petulance invade
Th’ oblivious grave’s inviolable shade.
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him who cannot hurt, allow to please;
To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
By harmless merriment, or useful sense.
Where aught of bright, or fair, the piece displays,
Approve it only – ’tis too late to praise.
If want of skill, or want of care appear,
Forbear to hiss – the Poet cannot hear.
By all, like him, must praise and blame be found;
At best, a fleeting gleam, or empty sound.
Yet then shall calm reflection bless the night,
When liberal pity dignify’d delight;
When pleasure fired her torch at Virtue’s flame,
And mirth was bounty with a humbler name.
SAMUEL JOHNSON [Lines Contributed to Hawkesworth’s ‘The Rival’]
Thy mind which Voluntary doubts molest
Asks but its own permission to be blest.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN from The School for Scandal
Song and Chorus
Here’s to the maiden of Bashful fifteen
Here’s to the Widow of Fifty
Here’s to the flaunting, Extravagant Quean,
And here’s to the House Wife that’s thrifty.
Chorus. Let the toast pass –
Drink to the Lass –
I’ll warrant She’ll prove an Excuse for the Glass!
Here’s to the Charmer whose Dimples we Prize!
Now to the Maid who has none Sir;
Here’s to the Girl with a pair of blue Eyes,
– And Here’s to the Nymph with but one Sir!
Chorus. Let the Toast pass etc.
Here’s to the Maid with a Bosom of Snow,
Now to her that’s as brown as a berry:
Here’s to the Wife with a face full of Woe,
And now for the Damsel that’s Merry.
Chorus. Let the Toast pass etc.
For let ’Em be Clumsy, or let ’Em be Slim
Young or Ancient, I care not a Feather:
– So fill a Pint Bumper Quite up to the brim
And let us E’en toast ’Em together!
Chorus. Let the toast pass –
Drink to the Lass –
I’ll warrant She’ll prove an Excuse for the Glass!
WILLIAM COWPER The Contrite Heart 1779
Isaiah lvii.15
The LORD will happiness divine
On contrite hearts bestow:
Then tell me, gracious GOD, is mine
A contrite heart, or no?
I hear, but seem to hear in vain,
Insensible as steel;
If ought is felt, ’tis only pain,
To find I cannot feel.
I sometimes think myself inclin’d
To love thee, if I could;
But often feel another mind,
Averse to all that’s good.
My best desires are faint and few,
I fain would strive for more;
But when I cry, ‘My strength renew,’
Seem weaker than before.
Thy saints are comforted I know
And love thy house of pray’r;
I therefore go where others go,
But find no comfort there.
O make this heart rejoice, or ach;
Decide this doubt for me;
And if it be not broken, break,
And heal it, if it be.
ROBERT FERGUSSON from the Latin of Horace Odes. I. II
Ne’er fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o’ you or me,
Nor deal in cantrup’s kittle cunning
To speir how fast your days are running,
5
But patient lippen for the best
Nor be in dowy thought opprest,
Whether we see mare winters come
Than this that spits wi’ canker’d foam.
Now moisten weel your geyzen’d wa’as
10
Wi’ couthy friends and hearty blaws;
Ne’er lat your hope o’ergang your days,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn,
Nor care yae strae about the morn.
1780SAMUEL JOHNSON A Short Song of Congratulation
Long-expected one and twenty
Ling’ring year, at last is flown,
Pomp and Pleasure, Pride and Plenty
Great Sir John, are all your own.
Loosen’d from the Minor’s tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather
Bid the slaves of thrift farewel.
Call the Bettys, Kates, and Jennys
Ev’ry name that laughs at Care,
Lavish of your Grandsire’s guineas,
Show the Spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly
Joy to see their quarry fly,
Here the Gamester light and jolly,
There the Lender grave and sly.
Wealth, Sir John, was made to wander,
Let it wander as it will;
See the Jocky, see the Pander,
Bid them come, and take their fill.
When the bonny Blade carouses,
Pockets full, and Spirits high,
What are acres? What are houses?
Only dirt, or wet or dry.
If the Guardian or the Mother
Tell the woes of wilful waste,
Scorn their counsel and their pother,
You can hang or drown at last.
SAMUEL JOHNSON On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet 1783
Condemn’d to hope’s delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,
See LEVET to the grave descend;
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of ev’ry friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection’s eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter’d arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefin’d.
When fainting nature call’d for aid,
And hov’ring death prepar’d the blow,
His vig’rous remedy display’d
The power of art without the show.
In misery’s darkest caverns known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour’d his groan,
And lonely want retir’d to die.
No summons mock’d by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain’d by pride,
The modest wants of ev’ry day
The toil of ev’ry day supplied.
His virtues walk’d their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th’ Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ’d.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Tho’ now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no throbbing fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And free’d his soul the nearest way.
WILLIAM BLAKE To the Evening Star
Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening,
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro’ the dun forest:
The fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.
WILLIAM COWPER from The Task 1784
[The Winter Evening]
Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze
With lights by clear reflection multiplied
From many a mirrour, in which he of Gath
Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk
Whole without stooping, tow’ring crest and all,
My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps
The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile
With faint illumination that uplifts
The shadow to the cieling, there by fits
Dancing uncouthly to the quiv’ring flame.
Not undelightful is an hour to me
So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom
Suits well the thoughtfull or unthinking mind,
The mind contemplative, with some new theme
Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.
Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow’rs
That never feel a stupor, I know no pause
Nor need one. I am conscious, and confess
