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"To die like Cato," leapt into the Thames! And therefore be it lawful through the town For any Bard to poison, hang, or drown. Who saves the intended Suicide receives

Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves; And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose

The Glory of that death they freely choose.

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse Prick not the Poet's conscience as a curse;

Dosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found, Or got a child on consecrated ground!

And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage— Feared like a bear just bursting from his cage. If free, all fly his versifying fit,

Fatal at once to Simpleton or Wit:

But him, unhappy! whom he seizes, — him He flays with Recitation limb by limb;

Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, And gorges like a Lawyer — or a Leech.