And wise men seldom took offence.
His genius and invention such,
From each event he’d something gather;
For nought ’scap’d his satiric touch,
That fairly came within his tether.
Nor ’scap’d he death;—His race is run,
(So fall the witty and the brave!)
His wool is comb’d, his thread is spun;
And daisies flourish round his grave!