And hail her passage to the realms of rest,
All parts performed, and all her children blest!
So—satire is no more—I feel it die—
No gazetteer more innocent than I—
And let, a' God's name, every fool and knave
Be graced through life, and flattered in his grave.
F. Why so? if satire knows its time and place,
You still may lash the greatest—in disgrace:
For merit will by turns forsake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.