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 are: His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being so fine-- Like a tragedy-queen he has dizened 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 pleased 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, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last and drew from himself? * * * * * Here lies David Garrick: describe me, who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confessed 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 beplastered with rouge his own natural red; On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting-- 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turned 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 pleased he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who peppered 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 raised, While he was be-Rosciused and you were bepraised! 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 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. * * * * *