Classic Poem

Mourn, mourn, you Booksellers, for cruel Death
Has robb'd the famous Auctioneer of Breath:
He's gone, he's gone! ah! the great Loss deplore,
Great Millington , alas! he is no more:
No more will he now at your Service stand
Behind the Desk, with Mallet in his Hand.
No more the Value of your Books set forth,
And sell 'em by his Art for twice their Worth.
Methinks I see him still with smiling Look
Amidst the Crowd, and in his Hand a Book,
Then in a fine facetious pleasing Way,
The Author's Genius and his Wit display.
O all ye scribbling Tribe, come mourn his Death,
Whose Wit hath giv'n your dying Fame new Birth:
When your neglected Works did mouldring lie
Upon the Shelves, and none your Books would buy,
How oft has he, with strained Eloquence,
Affirm'd the Leaves contain'd a world of Sense,
When all's insipid dull Impertinence.
Come, Gentlemen, come, bid me what you please;
Upon my Word, it is a curious Piece,
Done by a learned Hand, and neatly bound:
What say you, come, I'll put it up one Pound:
One Pound, once, twice? Fifteen: Who bids a Crown;
Then shakes his Head with an affected Frown;
Good-lack-a-day, 'tis strange; then strikes a Blow,
And in a feigned Passion bids it go:
Then in his Hand another Piece he takes,
And in its Praise a long Harangue he makes;
And tells 'em that 'tis writ in lofty Verse,
One that is out of Print, and very scarce;
Then with high Language, and a stately Look,
He sets a lofty Price upon the Book:
Five Pound, four Pound, three Pound, he cries aloud,
And holds it up, and shews it to the Crowd,
With Arm erect, the Bidders to provoke,
To raise the Price before th'impending Stroke:
This in the Throng does Emulation breed,
And makes 'em strive each other to out-bid,
While he descants upon their learned Heats,
And his facetious Dialect repeats:
For none like him for certain knew so well,
By way of Auction any Goods to sell.
'Tis endless to express the Ways he had
To sell the Good, and to put off the Bad.
But, ah! in vain I strive his Fame to spread;
The great, the wise, the knowing Man is dead.
And you in Painting skill'd, his Loss bewail,
He's dead that did expose your Works to Sale,
See how he lies, all dismal, wan, and pale:
No more by him your Praise will be express'd,
For, ah! he's gone to his eternal Rest:
Can you forget how he for you did bawl,
Come, put it in, a fine Original,
Done by a curious Hand: what Strokes are here
Drawn to the Life, how fine it does appear!
O lovely Piece, Ten Pound, Five Pound, for Shame;
You do not bid the Value of the Frame!
How many pretty Stories would he tell,
To inhaunce the Price, and make the Picture sell.
But now he's gone, ah! the sad Loss deplore!
Great Millington , alas! he is no more.
And you, the Muses Darling, to rehearse
Your Sorrow for the Loss of him in Verse,
Mourn, mourn together; for that Tyrant, Death,
Has robb'd the famous Auctioneer of Breath.

His Epitaph .

Underneath this Marble Stone
Lies the famous Millington:
A Man who through the World did steer,
I th' station of an Auctioneer;
A Man with wond'rous Sense and Wisdom blest
whose Qualities are not to be exprest.