Part Of A Prologue Written And Spoken By The Poet Laberius A Roman Knight, Whom Caesar Forced Upon The Stage

Preserved By Macrobius.

What! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more.
For ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Caesar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once, I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

Oliver Goldsmith

Oliver Goldsmith was an Irish novelist, playwright, and poet, best known for his novel 'The Vicar of Wakefield' (1766), his pastoral poem 'The Deserted Village' (1770), and his play 'She Stoops to Conquer' (1773). He was a versatile writer with works ranging from prose to poetry to drama and was a central figure in the literary circle known as the 'Club' alongside Samuel Johnson and Edmund Burke. His writing often depicted rural life and he became an important part of 18th-century English literature.

Oliver Goldsmith

On A Beautiful Youth Struck Blind With Lightning

Oliver Goldsmith, Simple Poetry

Translation

Oliver Goldsmith, Simple Poetry

Epilogue To 'The Good Natur'd Man'

Oliver Goldsmith, Simple Poetry

An Epigram Addressed To The Gentlemen Reflected On In The Rosciad, A Poem, By The Author

Oliver Goldsmith, Simple Poetry

English

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Prologue, Designed For Mr D'Urfey's Last Play.

Grown old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
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Damnation follows death in other men,
But your damn'd poet lives and writes again.
The adventurous lover is successful still,
Who strives to please the fair against her will:
Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,
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He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore,
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.
You modern wits, should each man bring his claim,
Have desperate debentures on your fame;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,
If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From this deep fund our author largely draws,
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Epilogue For Mr. Lee Lewes

Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
('Takes off his mask.')
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
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The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
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Oliver Goldsmith

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 friend 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
'What plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
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To Mr Granville,[1] On His Excellent Tragedy Called "Heroic Love."

    Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
    How could I envy, what I must commend!
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    That youth should reign, and withering age submit,
    With less regret those laurels I resign,
    Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
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    The long-contended honours of the field,
    Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
    And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
    Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
    Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
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    Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.
    Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age
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An Occasional Prologue, Delivered By The Author Previous To The Performance Of "The Wheel Of Fortune" At A Private Theatre. [1]

Since the refinement of this polish'd age
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Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
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And meet indulgence - though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone, we wish respect,
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To-night no vet'ran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
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George Gordon Byron

Epilogue To 'The Sister'

What! 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:
The world's a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you.
('To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery'.)
____, what a group the motley scene discloses!
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patri...

Oliver Goldsmith