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Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind: His pencil was striking, resistless, 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: To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing; When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
[4fter 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,
1 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
2 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humourous essays.
3 Mr. W. 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.
Who scattered around wit and humour at will
What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit
1 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
2 Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles, in the Public Advertiser.
SECLUDED from domestic strife,
-but let exclamation cease-
Need we expose to vulgar sight
And though she felt his usage rough, Yet, in a man, 'twas well enough. The honey-moon like lightning flewThe second brought its transports too; A third, a fourth, were not amiss The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss: But when a twelvemonth passed away, Jack found his goddess made of clay; Found half the charms that decked her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace; But still the wont remained behind, That very face had robbed her mind. Skilled in no other arts was she But dressing, patching, repartee; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle: 'Tis true she dressed with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapt her head. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend? Could any curtain lectures bring To decency so fine a thing? In short, by night 'twas fits or fretting, By day 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powdered coxcombs at her levee: The 'squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations. Jack sucked his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were passed between Insulting repartee, or spleen.
Thus, as her faults each day were known,
Now, to perplex the raveled noose,
The glass grown hateful to her sight,