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Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
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-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,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey¶ reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good nature :
Vide page 194.
+ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.
Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no!
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering; When they judg'd without skill, he was still hard of hearing;
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, † and only took snuff.
• Vide page 192.
+ Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,* from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.
HERE Whitefoord reclines; and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave t
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind
Should so long be to newspaper-essays confin'd!
* Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humour. ous essays.
+ Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with the itch of punning.
Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
Ye newspaper-witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs and re-echoed his jokes; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb; To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) Cross readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press,*
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said
This debt to thy mem❜ry I cannot refuse,
'Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd
Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humourous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.