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of his wa® courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? nes a day very worst foe can't accuse him of that : nfounded rhaps he confided in men as they go, ig and tried so was too foolishly honest? Ah no! [ye, n his pac hen what was his failing ? come, tell it, and burn ? could e was, could he help it? a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 'd whate has not left a wiser or better behind : t for fis dis pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
; to ples Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
(stuff, When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.
ur mind kind. st so u go
1; [ko nd
[After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the Publisher
received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, t 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. W. is so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible tu keep him company, without being in fected with the itch of punning.
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind
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 bis 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) Cro88-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.t
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit: This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, • Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd
* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
+ Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with hu| mourous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.
| A line nearly taken from Rochester's character of Charles, earl of Dorset.
SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Need we expose to vulgar sight
The honey-moon like lightning flew;
Skill'd in no other arts was she
Thus as her faults each day were known,
He fancies every tice she shows,
Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,
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 pastes 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 e’en 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 ;