OUR PARODIES ARE ENDED.

Our parodies are ended. These our authors,

As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air.

And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,

The Critic's puff, the Trade's advertisement,

The Patron's promise, and the World's applause,—

Yea, all the hopes of poets,—shall dissolve,

And, like this unsubstantial fable fated,

Leave not a groat behind!