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Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsey, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
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 these 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,

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 re

clines : 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;

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* 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 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



Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest 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.


Ye Kenricks, ye* Kellys, and † Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you

gave? How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,

[prais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were beBut peace to his spirit, whereyer it flies, To act an angel and mix with the skies: Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with

love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above 1.

* Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.

+ Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

# The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith, in respect to that gentleman.

Here JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE. HERE Hermes, says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow, Go fetch me some clay I will make an odd fellow ! Right and wrong shall be jumbled, much gold and some dross ; Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross ; Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions, A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions ; Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking, Turn’d to learning and gaming, religion, and raking. With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste ; Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;


Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant crea

ture, And slander itself must allow him good nature; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper: Yet one fault he bad, 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 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 wiser or better behind ;


That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail :
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, christian, dupe, gamester and poet,
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortalsbe GOLDSMITH his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You Hermes, shall fetch him--to make us sport here.

On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cookery.


ARE theme the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Is this the great poet whose works so content us ?
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books?
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.

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