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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 Cumberlandt lies, having acted his parts,

The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;

* Mr. Richard Burke; vide page 73. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at dif. ferent times, the Doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.

† Vide page 74.

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.

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:

* Vide page 74.

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 Kenrickst shall lecture;
Macphersonf write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend|| make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers** the Tweed shall cross

over,

No countrymen living their tricks to discover;

Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,

And Scotsman meet Scotsman, and cheat in the dark.

* The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

† Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of “ The School of Shakespeare.”

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

|| Vide page 76. ** Vide page 74.

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 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 vary'd 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,

Forheknew when hepleas'd he could whistlethem back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,

And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;

* Vide page 74

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 Woodfallst 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,

While he was be-Roscius'd and you were beprais'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,
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.

* Vide page 79.

† Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word :o the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.

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

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