Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote: 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Tho’ equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

    Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,

While the owner ne’er knew half the good that was in’t;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home: 
Would you ask for his merits? alas, he had none! 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 

    Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at,

Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! 
What spirits were his, what wit and what whim,
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish’d him full ten times a day at Old Nick,
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish’d to have Dick back again. 

    Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,

The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not what they are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen’d her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught? 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? 
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view
To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 

    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 shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,