It bears the fad remembrance ftill,
And people call it GARRICK'S HILL.
The goats their ufual distance keep,
We never have recourse to sheep;
And the whole scene wants nothing now,
Except your ferry-boat and cow.
I had a great deal more to say,
But I am fent exprefs away,
To fetch the squire's three children down
TO TISSINGTON from DERBY town;
And ALLEN fays he'll mend my rhime,
When e'er I write a fecond time.
COBLER OF CRIPPLEGATE'S LETTER
NUS'D to verse, and tir'd, Heav'n knows,
Of drudging on in heavy prose,
Day after day, year after year,
Which I have fent the GAZETTEER;
Now, for the first time, I essay
To write in your own eafy way.
And now, O LLOYD, I wish I had,
To go that road your ambling pad,
While you, with all a poet's pride,
On the great horfe of verfe might ride.
You leave the road that's rough and stoney,
To pace and whistle with your poney;
Sad proof to us you're lazy grown,
And fear to gall your buckle-bone.
For he who rides a nag fo fmall,
Will foon, we fear, ride none at all.
There are, and nought gives more offence,
Who have some fav'rite excellence,
Which evermore they introduce,
And bring it into constant use.
Thus GARRICK ftill in ev'ry part
Has paufe, and attitude, and ftart:
The paufe, I will allow, is good,
And fo, perhaps, the attitude;
The start too's fine: but if not scarce,
The tragedy becomes a farce.
I have too, pardon me, fome quarrel,
With other branches of your laurel.
I hate the ftile, that ftill defends
Yourself, or praises all your friends,
As if the club of wits was met
To make eulogiums on the Set;
Say, muft the town for ever hear,
And no Reviewer dare to fneer,
Of THORNTON's humour, GARRICK's nature,
And COLMAN's wit, and CHURCHILL's fatire?
CHURCHILL, who let it not offend,
If I make free, tho' he's your friend,
And fure we cannot want excuse,
When CHURCHILL'S nam'd, for smart abuse-
CHURCHILL! who ever loves to raise
On flander's dung his mushroom bays:
The priest, I grant, has fomething clever,
A fomething that will laft for ever.
Let him, in part, be made your pattern,
Whose muse, now queen, and now a flattern,
Trick'd out in ROSCIAD rules the roaft,
Turns trapes and trollop in the GHOST,
By turns both tickles us, and warms,
And, drunk or fober, has her charms.
GARRICK, to whom with lath and plaister
You try to raise a fine pilafter,
And found on LEAR and MACBETH,
His monument e'en after death,
GARRICK's a dealer in grimaces,
A haberdasher of wry faces,
A hypocrite, in all his stages,
Who laughs and cries for hire and wages;
As undertakers' men draw grief
From onion in their handkerchief,
Like real mourners cry and fob,
And of their paffions make a job.
And COLMAN too, that little finner,
That effay-weaver, drama-spinner,
Too much the comic Sock will ufe,
For 'tis the law muft find him Shoes.
And tho' he thinks on fame's wide ocean
He swims, and has a pretty motion,
Inform him, LLOYD, for all his grin
That HARRY FIELDING holds his chin.
Now higher foar, my muse, and higher,
TO BONNEL THORNTON, hight Efquire!
The only man to make us laugh,
A very PETER PARAGRAPH;
The grand conducter and advifer
In CHRONICLE, and ADVERTISER,
Who ftill delights to run his rig
On Citizen and Periwig!
Good sense, I know, tho' dash'd with oddity,
In THORNTON is no scarce commodity :
Much learning too I can defcry,
Beneath his periwig doth lie.
I beg his pardon, I declare,
His grizzle's gone for greasy hair,
Which now the wag with ease can scrue,
With dirty ribband in a queue —
But why neglect (his trade forfaking
For fcribbling, and for merry-making,)
With tye to overshade that brain,
Which might have fhone in WARWICK-LANE?
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