For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;

The pupil of impulse, 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;
you

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!

1 Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly 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 jests upon other people.

Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teazing 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 Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flatt'ring 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:
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 Kenricks shall lecture;
Macpherson3 write bombast, and call it a style;
OurTownshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,

And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

1 The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

2 Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspeare."

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

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 varied 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,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them
back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
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 Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was your's, 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 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
Shall still be his flatt'rers, go where he will:
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with
love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant crea-

ture,

And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'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:

1 Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to

the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.

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