Here, waiter, more wine, let me fit while I'm able;.
'Till all my companions sink under the table ;
Then with chaos and blunders encircling my head,

Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead..

Here lies the good (m) Dean, re-united to earth; Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth ::

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,

At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out;

Yet fome have declar’d, and it can't be denied 'em,,
That fly-boots was cursedly. cunning to hide 'em..

Here lies our good (n) Edmund, whose genius was such,,

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;:.

(9) Vide Page 6..

(n) Ibid.

Who.

Who, born for the Universe, narrow'd his mind,

And to party gave up, what was nieant for mankind.
Tho’ fraught with all learning, yet ftraining his throat,
To persuade (0) Tommy Townsend to lend him a vote; ..
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Tho’equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit:
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.

© Mr. T. Townsend, Member for Whitchurch.

• Here

Here lies honest (p) William, whose heart was a mint,

Whilc 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 you ask for his merits, alas! he had none,

What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

a

Here lies honcft Richard, whose fate I must sigh at, Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!

What fpirits were his, what wit and what whim,

(q) Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;

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 (r) Cumberland lies having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care

To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.

arms

tured 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.

(r) Vide page 5.

His

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 loft in a croud

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 dire&ting his view,

To find out mens virtues and finding them few,

Quite fick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last and drew from himself ?

Here