Oliver Goldsmith (1730–1774)

GOOD people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize,

Who never wanted a good word—

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass’d her door,

And always found her kind;

She freely lent to all the poor—

Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wondrous winning;

And never follow’d wicked ways,

Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size,

She never slumber’d in her pew—

But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;

The king himself has follow’d her—

When she has walk’d before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead—

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,

For Kent Street well may say,

That, had she lived a twelvemonth more,—

She had not died to-day.