Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a better or wiser behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; 140
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, Correggios, and stuff, 145
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
POSTSCRIPT
After the Fourth Edition of this Poem was printed, the Publisher
received an Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late Doctor
Goldsmith, inclosed in a letter, of which the following is an
abstract:--
'I have in my possession a sheet of paper, containing near forty lines
in the Doctor's own hand-writing: there are many scattered, broken
verses, on Sir Jos. Reynolds, Counsellor Ridge, Mr. Beauclerk, and Mr.
Whitefoord. The Epitaph on the last-mentioned gentleman is the only one
that is finished, and therefore I have copied it, that you may add it to
the next edition.
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