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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,
Gure sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
GOLDSMITH

On Mr. Garrick.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, contess'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

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; "Tw 'was 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 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 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

Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will.
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and
with love;

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

GOLDSMITH.

On Nell Bachelor, the Oxford 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-

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,
Who submits to all conquering fate,

Whose master took care to teach it to swear,
As his mistress had taught it to prate.

Poor Betty is only in fault;

Poor Betty, to save the expence of a grave,
Thought proper to choose it a vault.

If complaint should be made of the place where he's laid,

(

G. Woodfall, Printer,
Paternoster-row.

To preserve its dear fame, for time without name,
His mistress, still kinder and kinder,

Declar'd with a tear, she'd never come here,
Without leaving something behind her.

THE END.

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