Upon its blaze,
Alas! ye do but light your funeral pyre!
Tempting Fate's stroke;
Ye fall, and all your glory ends in smoke.
Safe in my chair from wounds and woe,
My fire and smoke from mine own mouth I blow.
Ye booksellers! who deal, like me, in puffs,
The public smokes,
You and your hoax,
And turns your empty vapor to rebuffs.