Here lies honest Richard,[24] whose fate I must sigh at; Alas! that such frolic should now be so 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 teasing 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. 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 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 pleas’d with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that mainly 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[25] 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[26] shall be pious, our Kenricks[27] shall lecture-- Macpherson[28] 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.