Such waste of what thou liv’dst to save, Might break the quiet of thy Grave. In what slow pomp the Rogues advance, Courting, as ’twere, Extravagance! O! the vast charge of every night! They revel, and set nothing by ’t; But give to have thee lie in state, More than thou e’er paid’st there for meat. What else?—their dead and useless load They carry on the _Turnpike_ road, Paying—but they care nothing, they, How many Gates there be to pay.— Plague on the Gates! how thick they are! Five pounds will soon be squander’d here. Another—and another yet! And _Half-a-crown_ at every Gate; Those Gates which thou didst alway shun, To save thy _Pence_ from every one. Alas! this needless cost is more Than all th’ extravagance before! To stop such charge, at least, arise And show them—where the _Bye-way_ lies! PARODY ON DRYDEN’S “THREE POETS,” &c. Three Poets, born in different lands and ages, Three different Heroes took to grace their pages: The first, a Buonaparte, fierce to fight; The next, a Methodistic Hypocrite: No human character combined more evil, So Milton for his Hero took the Devil. EPIGRAM. When first the Devil came in Milton’s view A swindging Tail[24] upon his rump there grew: But when in Pandæmomium he appears How alter’d is his form! no tail he wears. Such difference in that Personage is seen As Milton by himself perceived, between His full-grown Epic and his stripling Ode— His tadpole Devil had become a Toad. [24] ——th’ old Dragon— ——wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail. _Ode on the Nativity._ AN EXPOSTULATORY SUPPLICATION TO DEATH, AFTER THE DECEASE OF DR. BURNEY. Thou Trojan Death! thou worse than Trojan foe To English Greeks, the best of Greeks we know! In three we boasted; three we had of late, Rare Burney, matchless Porson, and the great ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ, props and pillars of our state; Two thou hast ravish’d from us; and the land Watches in anxious fear thy threat’ning hand. Two thou hast ravish’d, but we can’t resign a ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ yet awhile,—O spare ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ. ON THE DECEASE OF HORNE TOOKE. Horne Tooke is gone—rejoice and sing, Ye Placemen, and ye Tools of a King! He is gone!—then be his faults forgiven, And let us hope he’s gone to Heaven. That is a prayer you ought to make If not for love, for interest’ sake; For should he go to t’other place, Think how he’ll plague your hireling race. INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRANITE SARCOPHAGUS BROUGHT FROM ALEXANDRIA TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM.