Here lies David Garrick--describe me, who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man: As an actor, confess’d 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; 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 pleas’d 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,[29] and Woodfalls[30] so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! 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, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; Old Shakspere receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good-nature; He cherish’d his friend, and he relish’d a bumper; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper! Perhaps you may ask, if the man was a miser? I answer, no, no--for he always was wiser; Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe can’t accuse him of that; Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no! Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye! He was--could he help it?--a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid; and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind: His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve us in every part-- 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, Coreggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,[31] and only took snuff. [Illustration: POSTSCRIPT]