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His fools have their follies so 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 sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at laft, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas* retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack-bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come,and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety-I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Doddst shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall lecture;
Macphersong write bombast, and call it a style;
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowersq the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper Mall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe 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 Macpherson, esq. who from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquiry, # Vide page 64.

Vide page 63.

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, fimple, 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-
Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly fick,
If they were not his own by finesling and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsinan his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Of praise, 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 surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind-
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind:
Ye Kenricks*, ye Kellyst, and Woodfalls so grave,
Whatcommerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echothe shouts that you rais’d,
While he was be-Roscius'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.
• Vide page 66.
+ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, &c. &c.
* Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

Here Hickey* reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, And Nander 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 yem He was--could he help it-a special attorney.

Here Reynoldst is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind: His pencil was striking, refiftless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying and bland; Still born to improve us in every partHis pencil our faces, his manners our heart: To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, Whenthey judg’d withoutskill, he was stillhardof hearing; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios and stuff, He shifted his trumpets, and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT. HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Tho' he merrily liv’ds, he is now a grave man:

* Vide page 64. + Vide page 64

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

Mr. W. was so notorious a punfter, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with an itch for pun. ning.

Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, fincerem
A ftranger 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 freem
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that fo lib'ral a mind
Should so long be to Newspaper Effays confin'd!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could foar,
Yet content “if the table he set in a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station was fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall* confess’d him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his fquibs, and re-echo'd his jokes Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb; To deck it, bring with you feltoons 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 Pressot

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 best humor'd man with the worst humor'd muse."

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

+ Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under thole titles in the Public Advertiser.



Thanks, my lord, for your venison-for finer or fatter Never rang’d in a forest, or smoak’d in a platter: The haunch was a pi&ture for painters to study, The fat was fo white, and the lean was so ruddy; Thoʼmy stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view, To be shewn 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 soon 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, suppose 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 trusty and staunchSo I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik’d best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose'Twas a neck and a breat that might rival Monroe's :

Lord Clare's nephewe.

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