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Tho' strong persuasion hung upon thy lip,
And sly Insinuation's softer arts,
In ambush lay about thy flowing Tongue;
Alas! how chop-falln'n? Thck mists and silence
Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast
Unceasing.—Ah! where is the lifted arm,
The strength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tun'd voice,
With all the lesser ornaments of Phrase?
Ah! fled for, 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 halting 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 Catholicons
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 fly, 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 thy Receipts 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.

Here the lank-sided Miser, worst of fellons,