Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 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 forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 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!† * Mr. Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch. + Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these 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, His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own; Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenricks† shall lecture; And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confess'd 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. 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; '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 pleased he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, *The Rev. Dr. William Dodd.' + Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspeare." James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 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 gave ! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised! 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, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, Here Hickey 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 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 tell it, and burn ye : 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; * Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. + Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 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 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. POSTSCRIPT. After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, † from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith. HERE Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can, * 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. Mr. Whitefoord 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. F |