« ZurückWeiter »
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
On Mr. Garrick.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
On the stage he was natural, simple, affectin ;
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 grew 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! How did Grub-street re-echo the sliouts that you.
rais'd, While lie was be-roscius'd, and you were bea
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 skil,
with love; And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
On Nell Bachelor, the Orford Pye-woman.
Here, into the dust
The mouldering crust Of Elenor 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,
She made her last puff-
Now here she doth lie,
And makes a dirt pie,
An Epitaph on the Death of a favourite Parrot that
was found in a Necessary House.
Who submits to all conquering fate,
As his mistress had taught it to prate.
If complaint should be made of the place where
Thought proper to choose it a vault.
To preserve its dear fame, for time without name,
His mistress, still kinder and kinder,
Without leaving something bebind her.
G. Woodfall, Printer,