STANZAS

ON

WOMAN.

WH

HEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can sooth her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from ev'ry eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is, to die.

DESCRIPTION

OF AN

AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champaign,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;

There in a lonely room,

from bailiffs snug,

The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;

The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, And brave prince William shew'd his lamp-black

face:

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney

board;

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,

A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

LINES,

ATTRIBUTED TO

DR. GOLDSMITH;

INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF APRIL 3, 1800.

E'EN have you seen, bath'd in the morning dew, The budding rose its infant bloom display: When first its virgin tints unfold to view,

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day.

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek; I gaz'd, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame,

Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak.

GENTLEMEN,

TO THE EDITORS.

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 hand-writing, with an affectionate care. I am, GENTLEMEN,

Your humble servant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

M