Moore. The thought is lively, though the subject's grave;
And, therefore, you my free forgiveness have.
Rig. Fun. How can I serve you, ere you vanish hence?
Moore. I wish you'd cut the throat of Common Sense.
To him I owe my death. That cruel wight
Long on my hopes has cast a fatal blight.
I knew I had receiv'd the mortal blow,
When first he wounded me, six years ago;
And every year the knave has stronger grown,
While ev'ry year has sunk me lower down.