If their statues are broken for paving the streets.
The Deus Opt. Max. of these idols and quacks
Is now thrust in a corner for children to flout,
And the red thunder-brand he still grasps in his hand.
Lights not Jupiter Tonans to grope his way out.
Their Magnus Apollo no longer we follow,
He's routed and flouted and laid on the shelf,
And no poet's address will now reach him unless
He can play his own lyre and flatter himself.
As for Bacchus the sot, he has drain'd his last pot,