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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, 10 and so drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks;
Come all ye quack bards, and ye 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 12 shall lecture;
Macpherson 13 write bombast, and call it a style,

Our Townshends make speeches, and I shall compile ;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
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 me 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, 14 and Woodfalls15 so grave,

What a commerce was yours, 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 flatterers, 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 friends, 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 out of hearing :
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 16

1 "First printed in 1774, after the author's death. Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends, occasionally dined at St. James's Coffee-house.- One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and, at the next meeting, produced the poem."-(Note in old edition.)

2 Scarron the famous French wit, who was so poor that his friends made a pic-nic of their dinners at his house.

3 Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland, afterwards Bishop of Limerick, and of Killaloe.

4 William Burke.

5 Richard Burke.

6 Dr. afterwards Bishop Douglas, who detected the forgeries of Lauder's pretended plagiarism, and Bower's History of the Popes.

7 A gentleman at the Irish bar.

8 An eminent attorney.

9 The once famous statesman.

10 Burke's digestion was delicate, and cold mutton his standing dish.

11 Dr. Dodd, the unhappy clergyman.

12 Dr. Kenrick, a petty author, and troublesome critic of that day.

13 The famous compiler of Ossian.

14 Hugh Kelly, author of some clever sentimental comedies, of the success of which Goldsmith condescended to be jealous.

15 William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

16 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE, 1765.

Thanks, my lord, for your venison; for finer or fatter

Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter;

The haunch was a picture for painters to study,

The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;

Though my stomach was sharp I could scarce help regretting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts in my chambers to place it in view,

To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù :

As in some Irish houses, where things are 80, 80,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:
But for eating a rasher in what you take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan
is fry'd in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon 's a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try
By a bounce now and then to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce; I protest in my turn,
It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.1
To go on with my tale:-
e:-as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose,

'T was a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's.

But in parting with these I was puzzled again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's H -d, and C- -y, and H-rth, and H-ff,

I think they love venison-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone

For making a blunder or picking a bone:
But hang it-to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;

Such dainties to send them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated in reverie centr❜d,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
An under-bred fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me.

"What have we got here?-why this is good eating!
Your own,
suppose- -or is it in waiting?

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'Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce,

"I get these things often :" (but that was a bounce)

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