What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, [Nick;
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old
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 flattering 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 terrour of quacks: Come, all ye quack bards, aud ye̟ 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 lec-

ture;

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style; Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;

New Landers and Bowers, the Tweed shall crossover,

No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the
dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man :
As an actor, confess'd 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 ghitton, 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 yours, while you got and
you gave!
[rais'd,
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you
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 creature,

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:
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.

END OF VOL. V.

Goldsmith.

C. Whittingham, Printer, Chiswick.