'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, I'll seek the solitude he sought, And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.' 140 Forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried, 145 And clasp'd her to his breast: 6 The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, "Twas Edwin's self that prest. '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; 150 And shall we never, never part, 155 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.' 160 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG GOOD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wond'rous short, In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, 5 ΙΟ Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 15 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, Around from all the neighbouring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, 20 The wound it seem'd both sore and sad And while they swore the dog was mad, But soon a wonder came to light, The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that died. 25 30 SONG FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD' WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, 5 EPILOGUE TO THE GOOD NATUR'D MAN' 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 teas'd each rhyming fiend 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; 5 ΤΟ 15 'What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses! At the Pit door stands elbowing a way, While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 25 He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; |