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, 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; "Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. 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 prais'd! you were be 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, 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, 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. |