POSTSCRIPT. After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,* from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith. HERE Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can, What pity, alas! that so libéral a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Ye newspaper witlings, ye pert scribbling folks! *Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. Mr. Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning. Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 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 Press.* Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit; This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 'Thou best-humor'd man with the worst-humor'd Muse.' THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. A TALE. SECLUDED from domestic strife, Made him the happiest man alive; He drank his glass, and cracked his joke, Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Oh, had the archer ne'er come down To ravage in a country town! Or Flavia been content to stop * Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with hu morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop! The honey-moon like lightning flew, "Tis true she dressed with modern grace, Half naked, at a ball or race; married But when at home, at board or bed, To be a dull, domestic friend? In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee; And twenty other near relations : Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke While all their hours were pass'd between Thus, as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown; He fancies every vice she shews, Or thins her lips, or points her nose: Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! He knows not how, but so it is, Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And, though her fops are wondrous civil, That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower, The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright : Each former art she vainly tries Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old : With modesty her cheeks are dyed, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean; No more presuming on her sway, She learns good nature every day : Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. |