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In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in
place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William,* whose heart was
a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that
was in't; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove
home. Would you ask for his merits ? alas! he had What was good was spontaneous, his faults were
his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must
sigh at; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;t Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all.
* Vide page 59.
+ Mr. Richard Burke ; vide page 59. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
Here Cumberland* lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are; His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being so fine: Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that, vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglast retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks ; Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking
divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant
* Vide page 60.
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
lecture; Macphersont write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshendø make speeches, and I shall
compile; New Lauders and Bowersll the Tweed shall
cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in
the dark. Here lies David Garrick, T describe him who
can, An abridgement of all that was pleasant in
man ; As an actor, confest without rival to shine : As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent
heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
* The Rev. Dr. Dodd.
# Dr. Kenrick, who read Lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of 'The School of Shakespeare.'
† James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. p Vide page 61. 1160.
Like an ill-judged beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural
red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day; Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly
sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick; He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack; For he knew, when he pleas'd he could whistle
them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what
came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks,* ye Kellys,t and Woodfallst so
grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and
you gave !
* Vide page 64.
+ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.
# Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
How did Grub-Street re-echo the shouts that
you rais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were
beprais'd! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets who owe their best fame to his
skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and
with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys* above. Here Hickeyt reclines, a most blunt, pleasant
creature, And slander itself must allow him good-nature; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper, Yet one fault he had, and that one was a
thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser : I answer, No, No, for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe can't accuse hirn of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no? Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and
burn ye, He was,
could he help it ? a special attorney.
* Vide page 65.
+ Vide page 60.