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.
I am disappointed by that stroke of death that has eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure.
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?