They cut the lace that holds her ⸺, base must be the man who’d own
That such a garment now exists; with water from Cologne
They sprinkle her, and she revives, and sweetly smiles once more,
And points to what appears a heap of ashes on the floor!
Alas! ’twas so; the gallant knight, the former “man of mark,”
Is fitted now for nought but dust for Stapleton or Darke;
All shrivelled into nothingness, a horrid mass he lay,
His projects vanished into smoke, himself a yard of clay!
And never from that hour has anything been seen,
Except the ruin pointed out to Robinson or Green,