Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall ob

tain,

And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain :
Our Garrick's a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:

That

To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge is anchovy, and || Reynolds is lamb;
Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry-fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good **Dean, re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:

* Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and various other productions. (a)

+ Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor (afterwards Bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. David Garrick, Esq.

§ Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.

Sir Joshua Reynolds.

An eminent attorney.

** Vide page 105.

(a) After this note was written, of "Calvary, or the Death of Christ."

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks I cou'd not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.

Here lies our good *Edmund, whose genius was such,

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his
throat

To persuade +Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of
dining;

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't;

The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,

His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;

* Vide page 105.

† Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.

Vide page 105.

Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,

The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; Would ask for his merits? alas! he had none; you

What was good was spontaneous, his faults were

his own.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must

sigh at;

Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
*Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,

That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine; Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather, like tragedy giving a rout.

* Mr. Richard Burke, vide page 105. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.

His fools have their follies so lost 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 last, 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

Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall
lecture:

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;

*The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

+ Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspeare."

James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

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, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
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, 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 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.