Have robb’d my poor Muse of her Plume and her Wings;
Consum’d the Phlogiston you us’d to admire;
The Spirit extracted, extinguished the Fire;
Let out all the Aether so pure and refin’d,
And left but a mere Caput-Mortuum behind. 60
Ah, Priestley! thou Foe to my Numbers, what need
To shock my poor Muses? Thou dost not my Creed,
With Schemes, Dissertations, and Arguments strong
Which I know not how right, and I care not how wrong.
Thou great Necessarian, must I suppose