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But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our * Dodds shall be pious, our † Kenricks shall lecture;
+ Macpherson write bombaft, and call it a style,
Here lies David Garrick, defcribe me who can, An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confeft 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 Rev. Dr. Dodd.
† Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakespeare."
James Macpherfon, efq; who lately, from the mere force of his ftyle, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. || Vide page 98, ¶ Vide page 98.
§ Vide page 99.
Though fecure of our hearts, yet confoundedly fick,
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
How did Grub-street re-echo the fhouts that you rais'd,
Thofe poets, who owe their best fame to his fkill,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his † Kellys above.
Vide page 102.
Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of Falfe Delicacy, Word to the Wife, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.
Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chro
Here Hickey reclines, a moft blunt, pleasant
And flander itself muft allow him good-nature :
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wifer or better behind;
His pencil was ftriking, refiftless and grand;
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
* Vide page 98.
Sir Joshua Reynolds is fo remarkably deaf as to be under the neceffity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
AFTER the fourth edition of this poem was
printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on * Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late doctor Goldfmith.
HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
What pity, alas! that fo lib'ral a mind
* Mr.Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous effays. † Mr. W. was fo notorious a punster, that doctor Goldfmith used to fay it was impoffible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.
Whofe talents to fill any station was fit,
Ye news paper witlings! ye pert fcribbling folks!
Merry Whitefoord, farewel! for thy fake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost faid wit: This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou beft humour'd man with the worst humour'd "mufe."
* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under thofe titles in the Public Advertiser.