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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 Woodfallsso 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.

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 foolishly honest? Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn

, ye,-
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

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 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.

I 1 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 Dr. Goldsmith.

Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave? man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill:

1 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

2 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.

- A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was be.

What pity, alas ! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content “ if the table he set in a roar;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfall' confessd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd 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 yine, 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 pressa.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said

wit:

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,

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