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Like an ill-judged 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 pleas'd, he could whistle them back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what

came,

And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; 'Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 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 gave!

* Vide page 64.

+ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chro

nicle.

F

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 flies,

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 Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys* above. 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.

* Vide page 65.

† Vide page 60.

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 hearing:

When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet †, and only took snuff.

* Vide page 60.

† Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

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 doctor Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines; and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave †

man:

Rare compound of oddity, frolic and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd 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 bon 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 confin'd!

* 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.

Who perhaps to the summit of science could

soar,

Yet content if the table he set in a roar;'
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall * confess'd 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 worsthumour'd muse.'

* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

Mr Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humourous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

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