On some frail prop sedition still relies,
Some pious souls its frustrate arm admires,
E’en from the grave its fetid stench will rise,
E’en in its ashes live its wonted fires.
For ye, who mindful of my honours dead,
Do in your lines my hapless tale relate,
If by kind feeling to your office led,
Some crazy patriot shall inquire my fate,
Ah, woe is me! some wicked wit will tell,
“Oft have we seen him, ere the evening fall,