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Fold, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. If our landlord * supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best

dish: Our dean + shall be ven’son just fresh from the plains; Our Burke I shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains; Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour; And Dick || with his pepper shall heighten the savour :

* The master of the St. James's coffee-house, where the Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this Poem, occasionally dined.

+ Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. # Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

$ Mr. William Burke, late secretary to general Conway, and member for Bedwin.

| Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada.

Our Cumberland's * sweetbread its place shall obtain ;
And Douglas + is pudding, substantial and plain :
Our Garrick 's I a salad ; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge § is anchovy, and Reynolds || is lamb;
That Hickey 's I a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table ;

* Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West-Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.

+ Dr. John Douglas, now bishop of Salisbury, a native of Scotland, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen ; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.

# David Garrick, Esq.

§ Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.

| Sir Joshua Reynolds. q An eminent attorney.

Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good dean *, re-united to earth,
Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with

mirth: If he had any faults, he has left us in doubtAt least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out; Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be deny'd 'em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies our good Edmund t, whose genius was

such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his

throat, To persuade Tommy Townshend I to lend him a vote; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of


* Vide page 69.

+ Ibid. # Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ;
For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 't was 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 tipsey, the chariot drove home ;


ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none; 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 +!

* Vide page 69.

+ Mr. Richard Burke; vide page 69. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.

Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old nick ;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

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 ?

* Vide page 70.

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