To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, * and only took snuff.
After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher receive
following epitaph on Mr Whitefoord,t from a friend of the late Dr Goldsmith.
Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill:
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free,
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could scar,
Yet content "if the table be set in a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfallt confessed him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, Ship-news, and Mistakes of the Press.§
Merry Whitefoord, farewell; for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,
"Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd Muse."
*Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
+ Mr Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so notorious a punster, that Dr Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep his company without being infected with the itch of punning.
1 Mr H. S. Woodfall, printer of the public Advertiser.
§ Mr Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces, under those titles, in the public Advertiser.
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.
SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Book-worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five
Made him the happiest man alive;
He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.
Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ?
O! had the Archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town!
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop!
O, had her eyes forgot to blaze!
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze;
0! But let exclamations cease,
Her presence banish'd all his peace.
So with decorum all things carried,
Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was--married.
The honey-moon like lightning flew,
The second brought its transports too;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss,
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss:
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain'd behind,-
That very face had robb'd her mind.
Skill'd in no other arts was she,
But dressing, patching, repartee:
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.
"Tis true she dressed with modern grace.
Half-naked, at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her head
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing?
In short, by night 'twas fits or fretting:
By day 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy;
The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations:
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were pass'd between Insulting repartee and spleen.
Thus, as her faults each day were known He thinks her features coarser grown;
He fancies every vice she shows
Or thins her lip, or points her nose!
Whenever rage or envy rise,
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly
Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose.
As each a different way pursues.
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower,-
Lo! the small-pox, with horrid glare,
Levell'd its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.
The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright;
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her paste and creams
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The 'squire himself was seen to yield,
And even the captain quit the field.
Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack.
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old :
With modesty her cheeks are dyed,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day;
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beanty
JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses had ears;
"An't please you," quoth John, " I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, without thinking on asses."
WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN
KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What, in the name of dotage, drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine:
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame:
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