And gallant Tom Dockwra,
  Of Nature’s finest crockery,
  Now but thin air and mockery,
    Lurks by Avernus,
  Whose honest grasp of hand
  Still, while his life did stand,
  At friend’s or foe’s command,
    Almost did burn us.

VI.

  Roger de Coverley
  Not more good man than he;
  Yet has he equally
    Push’d for Cocytus,
  With drivelling Worral,
  And wicked old Dorrell,
  ’Gainst whom I’ve a quarrel,
    Whose end might affright us!—­

VII.

  Kindly hearts have I known;
  Kindly hearts, they are flown;
  Here and there if but one
    Linger yet uneffaced,
  Imbecile tottering elves,
  Soon to be wreck’d on shelves,
  These scarce are half themselves,
    With age and care crazed.

VIII.

  But this day Fanny Hutton
  Her last dress has put on;
  Her fine lessons forgotten,
    She died, as the dunce died;
  And prim Betsey Chambers,
  Decay’d in her members,
  No longer remembers
    Things, as she once did;

IX.

  And prudent Miss Wither
  Not in jest now doth wither,
  And soon must go—­whither
    Nor I well, nor you know;
  And flaunting Miss Waller,
  That soon must befall her,
  Whence none can recall her,
    Though proud once as Juno!

* * * * *

FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS.

  Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart,
  Just as the whim bites; for my part,
  I do not care a farthing candle
  For either of them, or for Handel.—­
  Cannot a man live free and easy,
  Without admiring Pergolesi? 
  Or through the world with comfort go,
  That never heard of Doctor Blow? 
  So help me heaven, I hardly have;
  And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,
  Like other people, if you watch it,
  And know no more of stave or crotchet,
  Than did the primitive Peruvians;
  Or those old ante-queer-diluvians
  That lived in the unwash’d world with Jubal,
  Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal
  By stroke on anvil, or by summ’at,
  Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. 
  I care no more for Cimarosa,
  Than he did for Salvator Rosa,
  Being no painter; and bad luck
  Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck! 
  Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,
  Had something in them; but who’s Purcel? 
  The devil, with his foot so cloven,
  For aught I care, may take Beethoven;
  And, if the bargain does not suit,
  I’ll throw him Weber in to boot. 
  There’s not the splitting of a splinter
  To choose twixt him last named, and Winter. 
  Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido
  Knew just as much, God knows, as I do. 
  I would not go four miles to visit
  Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?)
  No more I would for Bononcini. 
  As for Novello, or Rossini,
  I shall not say a word to grieve ’em,
  Because they’re living; so I leave ’em.