On Mr. Partridge, who died in May.
What! kill a partridge in the month of May!
Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh?
On Du Bois,
Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel.
Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,
Carte and tierce were his life, and a carte was his death.
On Mr. Nightingale, Architect.
As the birds were the first of the architect kind,
And are still better builders than men,
What wonders may spring from a Nightingale’s mind,
When St. Paul’s was produced by a Wren.
On Mr. Churchill.
Says Tom to Richard, “Churchill’s dead.”
Says Richard, “Tom, you lie;
Old Rancour the report has spread,
But Genius cannot die.”
On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist,
Who, several years before his death, lost one of his
nether limbs.
Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve,
Though his pickle was true Attic salt;
One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve,
Though his wit was known never to halt.
A most precious limb and a rare precious pate,
With one limb taken off for wise ends;
Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait,
Never failed to take off his best friends:
Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice,
Was his practice for pastime or pelf;
For which ’twere no wonder, if both should rejoice
At the day when he took off himself.