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 laft, 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 spot where your tyrant reclines:
When fatire 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‡ shall lecture;
Macpherson§ write bombaft, and call it a ftyle;
Our Townshend make fpeeches, and I fhall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, defcribe him who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
* Vide page 63.
The Rev. Dr. Dodd.
Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakespeare."
James Macpherfon, efq. who from the mere force of his ftyle, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.
Il Vide page 64.
Vide page 63.
As an actor, confefs'd without rival to fhine-
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 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 reafon 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 praife, a mere glutton, he swallow'd 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 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 Woodfallst fo grave,
What commerce was yours, while you got and you gave?
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,
While he was be-Rofcius'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 still be his flatterers, go where he will—
Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Behns be his Kellys above.
+ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of Falfe Delicacy, &c. &c. Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
Here Hickey* reclines, a moft blunt pleasant creature, And flander 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 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? 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 wifer or better behind:
His pencil was ftriking, refiftlefs, 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 averfe, yet moft civilly fteering,
Whenthey 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 snuff.
HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Tho' he merrily liv'd§, he is now a grave man:
* Vide page 64.
+ Vide page 64.
Sir Joshua Reynolds was fo remarkably deaf as to be under the neceffity of ufing an ear-trumpet in company.
? Mr. W. was fo notorious a punfter, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impoffible to keep him company without being infected with an itch for punning.
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whofe temper was generous, open, fincere-
A ftranger to flatt'ry, a ftranger to fear;
Who fcatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whofe daily bon mots half a column might fill:
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free-
A fcholar, yet furely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas! that fo lib'ral a mind
Should fo long be to Newspaper Effays confin'd!
Who perhaps to the fummit of science could foar,
Yet content "if the table he fet in a roar;"
Whofe talents to fill any ftation was fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall* confefs'd him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert fcribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokesYe tame imitators, ye fervile herd, come, Still follow your master, and vifit his tomb; To deck it, bring with you feftoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then ftrew all around it (you can do no lefs) Cross-readings, Ship-news, and Mistakes of the Prefs.+ Merry Whitefoord, farewell!—for thy fake I admit That a Scot may have humor-I had almost said wit: This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,
"Thou beft humor'd man with the worst humor'd mufe."
* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
+ Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under thofe titles in the Public Advertiser.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
THANKS, my lord, for your venison-for finer or fatter
Never rang'd in a foreft, or smoak'd in a platter:
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy;
Tho'my ftomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil fuch a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be fhewn to my friends as a piece of virtu-
As in fome Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as foon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon's damnable bounce;
Well, fuppofe it a bounce-fure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it's no bounce- I proteft, in my turn,
It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn*.
To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch
I thought of a friend that was trufty and ftaunch-
So I cut it, and fent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, juft as he lik'd beft.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to difpofe'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:
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