'Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor❜d to love and thee.

'Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev'ry care resign;

And shall we never, never part,
My life my all that's mine?

'No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too.'

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A

MAD DOG.1

|OOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.2

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes."

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad and bit the man.

[ First printed in The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766, i. 175.] [2 Cf. An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, p. 77 ante.]

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.1

['This termination is based upon an epigram in the Greck Anthology, or perhaps upon an adaptation by Voltaire: "L'autre jour, au fond d'un vallon

Un serpent mordit Jean Fréron.

Devinez ce qu'il arriva?

Ce fut le serpent qui creva."]

SONG,

FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.'1

HEN 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.

[ Sung by Olivia in chap. v. of The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766, ii. 78, where it was first printed.]

CHAT! five long acts-and all to make us wiser !

Our authoress sure has wanted an

adviser.

Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of
thinking.

Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've got my cue:

you.

The world's a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, (To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.) Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false

spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patriots, in party-coloured suits, that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.

[1 The Sister, 1769, in which this epilogue was first printed, was a comedy by Mrs. Charlotte Lennox (1720-1804), produced at Covent Garden, 18 February, 1769.]