Were to sell by to-morrow to Heathens or Turks,
And so be got out of my way,
They might still be abused, as this moment they must,
Let their pages be read as they will,
And around their cloth binding the dirt and the dust
Might entwine themselves verdantly still!
It was not till old Lady Morgan had flown
To my neighbours in Conduit-street dear,
That the worthless, half-price of her works could be known
Which so long have laid mouldering here.