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His fools have their follies so loft in a crowd
Here Douglas* retires from his toils to relax,
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
* Vide page 63.
# 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-
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!
What pity, alas! that fo lib'ral a mind
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.
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
A POETICAL EPISTLETO LORD CLARE.
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.