In Death A Hero, As In Life

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!

Atheists Put On False Courage And Alacrity In The Midst Of Their Darkness And Apprehensions, Like Children Who, When They Fear To Go In The Dark, Will Sing For Fear.

Taste, That Eternal Wanderer, Which Flies From Head To Ears, And Now From Ears To Eyes.

For Wit And Judgment Often Are At Strife, Though Meant Each Other's Aid, Like Man And Wife.

Dear, Damned, Distracting Town, Farewell! Thy Fools No More I'll Tease: This Year In Peace, Ye Critics, Dwell, Ye Harlots, Sleep At Ease!