Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, you gave! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd ! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies; Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey¶ reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature : Vide page 194. + Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper; And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no! Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering; When they judg'd without skill, he was still hard of hearing; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, † and only took snuff. • Vide page 192. + Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. 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 Doctor Goldsmith. HERE Whitefoord reclines; and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave t man: Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun! What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper-essays confin'd! * Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humour. ous essays. + Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor 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. 1 Ye newspaper-witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs and re-echoed his jokes; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb; To deck it, bring with you festoons 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 press,* Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit; This debt to thy mem❜ry I cannot refuse, 'Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd muse.' Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humourous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. |