Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on re fining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; Though 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. GOLDSMITH. On Mr. Cumberland*. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine: Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces. Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, GOLDSMITH. On Mr. Garrick. Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, 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 On the stage he was nauural, simple, affecting; sick, If they were not his own by finessing and trick: Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, While he was be-roscius'd, and you were be But prais'd! peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies: Those Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. GOLDSMITH On Nell Bachelor, the Oxford Pye-woman. Here, into the dust The mouldering crust Of Elener Batchelor's shoven, Well vers'd in the arts Of pies, custards, and tarts, And the lucrative skill of the oven. When she'd liv'd long enough, A puff by her husband much prais'd: Now here she doth lie, And makes a dirt pie, In hopes that her crust shall be rais'd. An An Epitaph on the Death of a favourite Parrot that was found in a Necessary House. Here safe lie interr'd the remains of a bird, If complaint should be made of the place where he's laid, Poor Betty is only in fault; Poor Betty, to save the expence of a grave, Το preserve its dear fame, for time without name, His mistress, still kinder and kinder, Declar'd with a tear, she'd never come here, G. Woodfall, Printer, THE END. |