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Op old, when Scarron his companions invited, , Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united, If our "landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best

dish : Oar fdean shall be venifon, juft fresh from the plains; Our [Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains; Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, And ||Dick with his pepper shall heighten the favour :

The master of the St. James's coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this

poem, occasionally dined. + Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry in Ireland. | Mr. Edmund Burke. § Mr. William Burke, late secretary to general Conway, and member for Bedwin. | Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. VOL. I,

H

Our

Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And † Douglas is pudding, fubftantial and plain :
Our 1 Garrick's a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and faltness agree :
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That 5 Ridge is anchovy, and || Reynolds is lamb;
That q Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith, a goofberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me fit while I'm able,
'Till all my companions fink under the table ;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

• Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.

+ Doctor Douglas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting feveral literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. I David Garrick, esq;

& Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. 1 Sir Joshua Reynolds, An eminent attorney,

Here

Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth,
Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with

mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in fix weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That fly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.

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Here lies our good + Edmund, whose genius was

such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind:
Though fraught with all learning, yet ftraining his

throat;
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, ftill went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of

dining;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, fir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

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* Vide page 97

+ Ibid.

Mr. T. Townshend, member før Whitchurch.

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Here

Here lies honeft* William, whose heart was a

mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was

in't; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, His conduct filt right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsey, the chariot drove home; Would

you

ask for his merits? alas ! he had none; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his

Own.

Here lies honeft Richard, whose fate I must figh at; Alas, that such frolic should now be fo quiet ! What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim! + Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all! In short, so provoking a devil was dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old nick; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. ,

* Vide page 97.

+ Mr. Richard Burke; vide page 97. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arins and legs, at differ. ent times, the doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people,

Here

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 arë. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine ; Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd het out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies fo loft 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?. Sáy, was it that vainly directing his view To find out mens virtues, and finding them few, Quite fick of purfuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drei from himself?

Here + Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The fcourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant re

clines : When satire and cenfure encircled his throne, I fear’d for your fafety, I fear'd for my own;

* Vide p. 98.

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