Chiswick, Middlesex. ON WILLIAM HOGARTH, Esq. Farewell, great painter of mankind, If genius fire thee, reader, stay : ON DR. GOLDSMITH. Here lies the but of all his betters; Of animation though bereft, His right hand oft forgot his left; A mere good natur'd man through meekness, In working cures was sure to kill; By his own art who justly died, A blundering, artless suicide: Share, earth-worms, share, since now he's dead, His megrim, maggot-bitten head. Another. Adieu, sweet bard! to each fine feeling true, Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds,-and these With harmless mirth the social soul to please. Westminster Abbey, Between Gay's monument and the Duke of Argyle's is OLIVER GOLDSMITH, Poet, Natural Philosopher and Historian, or, Unadorned by his pen, Whether to move laughter, He was a powerful master over the affections, Though at the same time a gentle tyrant; In expression at once noble, His memory will last As long as society retains affection; Where Pallas had set her name, 29th Nov. 1731. He was educated at Dublin, Previous to the publication of Goldsmith's Deserted Village, the bookseller had given him a note for one hundred guineas for the copy, which the Doctor mentioned, a few hours after, to one of his friends, who observed it was a very great sum for so short a performance, "In truth," replied Goldsmith, “I think so too; it is much more than the honest man can afford, or the piece is worth; I have not been easy since I received it; I will therefore go back and return him his note :" which he actually did, and left it entirely to the bookseller to pay him according to the profits produced by the sale of the poem, which turned out very considerable. On a Scold. How apt are men to lye! how dare they say, ON MR. EDMUND PURDON, An Author. Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, He led such a d -e life in this world, I don't think he'll ever come back, ON HENRY FIELDING, Esa. The master of the Greek and Roman page, Who made the public laugh at public vice, In whom the poet and the patron join’d. Hence power consign'd the laws to thy command, And find the female penitent a place. From toils like these, too much for eye to bear, Weston Church-Yard, Cheshire. On a Parish Clerk. Here lies entomb'd within this vault so dark, |