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Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
On Mr. Garrick.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; "Tw 'was 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,
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,
While he was be-roscius'd, and you were be prais'd!
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,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
On Nell Bachelor, the Oxford Pye-woman.
Here, into the dust
The mouldering crust
Of Elenor Batchelor's shoven,
Well vers'd in the arts
Of pies, custards, and tarts,
And the lucrative skill of the oven.
When she'd liv'd long enough,
A puff by her husband much prais'd:
Now here she doth lie,
And makes a dirt pie,
In hopes that her crust shall be rais'd.
An Epitaph on the Death of a favourite Parrot that was found in a Necessary House.
Here safe lie interr'd the remains of a bird,
Whose master took care to teach it to swear,
Poor Betty is only in fault;
Poor Betty, to save the expence of a grave,
If complaint should be made of the place where he's laid,
G. Woodfall, Printer,
To preserve its dear fame, for time without name,
Declar'd with a tear, she'd never come here,