But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 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 what they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being so fine; 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 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 Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks. Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own: But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style; Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover: Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe him 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 beplaster'd 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 turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: Tho' 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 swallow'd what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown 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 raised, When he was be-Roscius'd and you were bepraised!