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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 Douglas * 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 reclines:
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds+ shall be pious, our Kenricks I shall lecture;
Macpherson $ write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers I the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover ;
+ 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.
|| Vide page 71. I Vide page 70.
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick *, describe him who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ;
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ;
As a wit, if not first, in the
first line :
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge
his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ;
’T was 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 vary'd 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
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to discase,
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 +, and Woodfalls # so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you
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 fies,
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 Hickey s reclines, a most blunt, pleasant crea
ture, And slander itself must allow him good nature ;
+ 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.
Vide page 70.
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 him of that ;
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah no!
Then what was his failing ? come teil it, and burn
He was—could he help it ?-a special attorney.
Here Reynolds * is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind ; His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and
stuff, He shifted his trumpet *, and only took snuff.
* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
AFTER the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord *, from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith,
HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave + man:
* Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humourous essays.
+ Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning,