Poems by Oliver Goldsmith

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT

Weeping, murmuring, complaining,

Good people all, with one accord,

Worried with debts and past all hopes of bail,

Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way,

'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,

Good people all, of every sort,

Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;

'Enter' MRS. BULKLEY,

There is a place, so Ariosto sings,

Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success,

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure

What! five long acts and all to make us wiser!

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

This tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,

MADAM,

Ye Muses, pour the pitying tear

Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,

For you, bright fair, the nine address their lays,

Preserved By Macrobius.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,

Let school-masters puzzle their brain,

When lovely woman stoops to folly,

Ah me! when shall I marry me?

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,

THE PERSONS.

John Trott was desired by two witty peers

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Secluded from domestic strife,

To Iris, In Bow Street, Convent Garden

Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

In Imitation Of Dean Swift

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

'Twas you, or I, or he, or all together,

Chaste are their instincts, faithful is their fire,

In all my Enna's beauties blest,

'This 'is' a poem! This 'is' a copy of verses!'

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