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Tho' ſtrong Perſuaſion hang upon thy lip,
And ſly inſinuation's ſofter arts
In ambuſh lay about thy flowing tongue,
Alas! how chop-fallen-in? ——Thick miſts and ſilence
Reſt, like a weary'd cloud, upon thy breaſt
Unceaſing ——Ah! where is the liſted arm.
The ſtrength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn's period, and the well-tun'd voice,
With all the letter ornaments of Phraſe?
Ah! fed for ever, as they ne'er, had been,
Raz'd from the book of Fame ——or more provoking,
Perchance ſome hackney hunger bitten Scribbler
Inſults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhimes,
With heavy-haluing pace that drawl along;
Enough to rouſe a dead man into rage
And warm with red reſentment the wan check.
Here the great Maſters of the Healing-art,
These mighty mock-defrauders of the Tomb,
Spite of their Juleps and Catholicans,
Reſign to fate. ——Proud Eſculapius' ſon!
Where are thy boaſted implements of Art.
And all the well cram'd magazines of health?
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as ſhip could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd Brook,
Eſcap'd thy rifling, hand ——from ſtubborn ſhrubs.
Thou wrung'ſt their ſhy retiring Virtues out,
And vex'd them in the fire ——nor ſly, nor ⟨inſect⟩,
Nor wreathy ſnake, eſcap'd thy deep reſearch
But why this apparatus? ——why this coſt?
Tell us, thou doughty Keeper from the Grave,
Where are tiny Recipes and Cordials now,
With the long liſt of vouchers for thy cures?
Alas! thou ſpeakest not. ——The bold impoſtor
Looks not more ſilly when the cheat's found out.
