_George! did'nt I hear the critics hiss,
When I was dead?--"Yes, brother, yes,
You did not die in high rant."
Nay, if they think a dying king
Like Harlequin convuls'd, should spring,
Let ---- be hence their tyrant._
Curse on that KENRICK,[28] with his caustic pen,
Who scorns the hate, and hates the love of MEN;
Who with such ease envenom'd satire writes,
Deeper his ink than aqua fortis[29] bites.
Stand his perpetual-motion[30] ever still;
Or, if it move, oh, let it move uphill.
The curse of Sisiphus, oh, let him feel;
The curse of Fortune's still recurring wheel;