His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Adopting his portraits are pleas'd with their own. Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 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 9 shall be pious, our Kenricks' shall lecture; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style; Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. 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, 9 The Rev. Dr. Dodd. r Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakespear." s James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, u Ye Kenricks, ye Kellyst, 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 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: t Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c. u Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle, Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Old Shakespear receive him with praise and with love, 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, Corregios and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, * and only took snuff. * Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. |