David Garrick

Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, Who wrote like an angel, and talk’d like poor Poll.

Are these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us? Is this the great poet whose works so content us? This Goldsmith’s fine feast, who has written fine books? Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks?

Here lies James Quinn. Deign, reader, to be taught, Whate’er thy strength of body, force of thought, In Nature’s happiest mould however cast, To this complexion thou must come at last.

Heart of oak are our ships, Heart of oak are our men; We always are ready.

This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet.

Let others hail the rising sun: I bow to that whose course is run.

Prologues like compliments are loss of time; ’T is penning bows and making legs in rhyme.

Their cause I plead,—plead it in heart and mind; A fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind.

Corrupted freemen are the worst of slaves.