_Moore._ But, bless me! all in black! What! mourn a _living_ man! Alack! alack! _Rig. Fun._ I wear _prospective_ mourning, thus to shew The solemn grandeur of _prophetic woe_. _Moore._ The thought is _lively_, though the subject's _grave_; And, therefore, you my free forgiveness have. _Rig. Fun._ How can I serve you, ere you vanish hence? _Moore._ I wish you'd cut the throat of COMMON SENSE. To him I owe my death. That cruel wight Long on my hopes has cast a fatal blight. I knew I had receiv'd the mortal blow, When first he wounded me, six years ago; And every year the knave has stronger grown, While ev'ry year has sunk me lower down. _Rig. Fun._ I will avenge you;—nay, I'll go much further: The "Crowner's quest" shall find him guilty "Murther." The common hangman shall cut short his breath; And, by a shameful end, avenge _your_ death. _Moore._ 'Tis kindly said; and I in peace shall die. Say, is there aught that _you_ would ask of _I_? _Rig. Fun._ Oh, FRANCIS MOORE! who soon _no_ MORE wilt be; I came, a precious boon to beg of thee:— One gracious favour, ere you breathe your last,— _On_ ME _your Prophet's mantle deign to cast!_ Let _me_ be raised to your deserted throne, And call your countless subjects all my own. Then let the mirth, they levell'd once at thee, Fall, if it will, with tenfold force on me. If all will laugh at _me_, who laugh'd at _you_, The frowns of fortune I no more shall rue; Nay, with such temper would I bear their jeers, I could endure them for a hundred years. _Moore._ Life's ebbing fast; my sands are nearly run; But you shall have what you request, my son! Now, sit you down, and write what I shall say,— The last bright glimmerings of the taper's ray. I'll shew you how to pen those strains so well, Of which the meaning no one e'er could tell. Send forth the women;—draw a little nigher; My brain is heating with prophetic fire. _Rig. Fun._ Matrons, abscond! (_They depart glumpishly; carrying off the Mediciner._) Now, Dad, I'm all attention, To learn the wisdom that's past comprehension. _Moore._ "The fiery Mars with furious fury rages." _Rig. Fun._ I've penn'd that down, most erudite of sages! _Moore._ "The Dog-star kindles with inflaming ire." _Rig. Fun._ Just wait a moment, while I stir the fire. _Moore._ "Terrific portents flame along the sky; "I know the cause,—but dare not mention why." _Rig. Fun._ (_aside_) Which shews your prophecying's all my eye. _Moore._ "The planets are the book in which I read,—" _Rig. Fun._ I'm very glad to hear that you succeed. You've better luck than when you went to school; For there, I guess, they perch'd you on a stool. _Moore._ I read this solemn truth, as in a glass,— 'Whate'er will happen's sure to come to pass;' "And if it don't, why 'set me down an ass.'"