At a dinner fo various, at fuch a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and flick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me fit while I'm able,
Till all my companions fink under the table;
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 mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,

At leaft in fix weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet fome have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That fly-boots was curfedly cunning to hide 'em.

Here lies our good Edmund, whofe genius was fuch
We fcarcely can praise it or blame it too much ;
Who, born for the Univerfe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Tho' fraught with all learning, yet ftraining his throat
To perfuade* Tommy Townfend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, fill went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a flatefman, too proud for a wit ;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge, difobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In fhort, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, Sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

A 2

* Mr. T. Townfind, member for Whitchurch.

Here

Here lies honeft William, whofe heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't The pupil of impulfe, it forc'd him along,

His conduct ftill right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,

The coachman was tipfy, the chariot drove home;
Would you alk for his merits, alas! he had none;
What was good was fpontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honeft Richard, whofe fate I must figh at,
Alas, that fuch frolic fhould now be fo quiet!
What fpirits were his, what wit and what whim,
Now breaking a jeft, and now breaking a limb*;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all
In fhort, fo provoking a devil was Dick,

;

That we with'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; But, miffing his mirth and agreeable vein

As often we wifh'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 faultlefs, his women divine;
And comedy wonders at being fo fine;

Like

2

Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having flightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on thofe accidents, as a kind of retributiv: juftice for breaking his jefts upon other people.

Like a tradegy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.

His fools have their follies fo loft 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 fick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at lall, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The fcourge of impoftors, the terror of quacks;
Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come and dance on the fpot where your tyrant reclines.
When Satire and Cenfure encircled his throne,

I fear'd for your fafety, I fear'd for my own ;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds fhall be pious, our Kenricks fhall lecture;
Macpherfon write bombaft, and call it a flyle;

Our Townfend make fpeeckes, and I fhall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed fhall crofs over,
No countryman living their tricks to difcover;
Detection her taper fhall quench to a spark,

And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark.. Here hes David Garrick, defcribe me who can

An abridgement of all that was pleafant in man;

A 3

A

As an actor, confeft without rival to fhine,
As a wit if not firft, in the very first line;
Yet with talents like thefe, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art;
Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he fpread,
And beplafter'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the ftage he was natural, fimple, 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;
Tho' fecure of our hearts, yet confoundedly fick
If they were not his own by fineffing and trick;
He caft 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 swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he miftook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almoft to disease,
Who pepper'd the higheft was fureft 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 Wood falls fo grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave?
How did Grub-treet re-echo the fhouts that you rais'd,
While he was berofcius'd, and you were beprais'd?
But peace to his fpirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel, and mix with the skies;
Thofe poets who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall ftill be his flatterers, go where he will.

Old

Old Shakspeare receive him with praife and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a moft blunt, pleasant creature, And flander itself mult allow him good-nature :

He cherish'd his friend, and he relifh'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper:
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a mifer;
I anfwer, No, no, for he always was wifer:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat;
His very worst foe can't accufe him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And fo was too foolishly honeft ?-Ah no!
Then what was his failing?
He was, could he help it?

come tell it, and burn ye, a fpecial attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid; and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wifer or better behind;

His pencil was friking, refiftlefs, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying,, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,

J

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:

To coxcombs averfe, yet moft civilly fleering,

When they judg'd without skill he was ftill hard of hearing: When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took fnuff.

THE

*Sir Joshua Reynolds is fo remarkably deaf as to be under the neceffity of ufing an car-trumpet in company.