Here, waiter, more wine, let me fit while I'm able,
'Till all my companions fink 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 mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth: If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in fix weeks, I could not find 'em out; Yet fome have declar'd, and it can't bedeny'd 'em, That Ny-boots was curfedly cunning to hide 'em.

Here lies our good † Edmund, whose genius was

fuch, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much

1; Who, born for the universe narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Tho' fraught with all learning, yet itraining his throat, To persuade + Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; Who, too deep for his hearers, Atill went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of

dining; Tho' 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, unemployd, or in place, fir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Vide page 199. + Vide page 199 | Mr T. Townshend, member for Whitechurch.

Here lies honeft * William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't; The pupil of impuise, it forc'd him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 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; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his


Here lies honest Richard whose fate I must sigh at ; Alas that such frolic Mould now be fo quiet ! What fpirits were his! what wit and what whim; + Now breaking a jeft, and now breaking a limb ? Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ! Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! In short fo provoking a devil was Dick, That we wilu'd him full ten times a day at old nick; But, milling 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 heaits;
A flattering painter, who made it bis care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are,
His, gallants are all faultless his won en divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine ;

This gen

* Vide page 200.

+ Mr Richard Burke ; vide page 200. tleman having Nightly 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 jefts on other people.

I Vide page 200.

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Like a tragedy queen he has dizend them out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His foo's have their follies ro lost in a crowd
Of virtucs 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 mén's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite fick of pursuing each troublesome elf,

grew lazy at lart, and drew for himself?

Here * Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impoitors, the terror of quacks :
Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divincs,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant re-

When satire and censure encircled his thrope,
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 pions, our # Kenricks shall

le&ure ;
|| Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Our g Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;
New 9 Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover ;

* Vide page 200.

+ The Rev. Dr. Dodd. # Mr. Kenrick lately read lectures at the Devil tavern, under the title of " The School of Shakespeare'

ll James Macpherson, Esq; who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antie quity, * Vide page 2oo.

Vide page 200

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Detection her taper shall 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; 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 an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd, with rouge, his own natural red. On the itage 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 vary'd full ten times a day : Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly fick, If they were not his own by fineffing and trick: He cait off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he new when he pleas'd he could whistle them

Of praisc a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
'Till his relith grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the higheit was sureit 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,

you got what

you gave?

* Vide page 200:

+ Vide page 203: I Mr. High Kelly, author of Falle Delicacy, Word to the wise, Clementina, School for wiies, &e.

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

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,
While he was buroscius'd, and you were beprais'a ?
But peace to his fpirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies :
'Those poets, who owe' their best fame to his fill,
Shall ftill be his flatterers, go where he will.
Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with

And Beaumonts and Bens be his * Kellys above.

Here * Hickey reclines, a moft blunt pleasant crea

ture, And slander itself muft allow him good nature : He cherish'd his friend and he relith'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 foolituly honeft ? ah no! Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye, He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

Here I Reynolds 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 part, His pencil our faces; his manners our heart :

* Vide page 204. + Vide page 200.

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