The nymph who dwells in every tree,
(If all be true that poets chant)
Condemn'd by Fate's supreme decree,
Must die with her expiring plant.

Thus, when the gentle Spina found
The thorn committed to her care,
Receiv'd its last and deadly wound,
She fled, and vanish'd into air.

But from the root a dismal groan
First issuing struck the murderer's ears:
And, in a shrill revengeful tone,

This prophecy he trembling hears:

"Thou chief contriver of my fall,
Relentless Dean, to mischief born;
My kindred oft thine hide shall gall,
Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.

And thy confederate dame, who brags
That she condemn'd me to the fire,
Shall rend her petticoats to rags,

And wound her legs with every brier.

Nor thou, Lord Arthur, * shalt escape;
To thee I often call'd in vain,

Against that assassin in crape;

Yet thou could'st tamely see me slain :

Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,

Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse; Since you could see me treated so (An old retainer to your house):

* Sir Arthur Acheson.-.-F.

May that fell Dean, by whose command
Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,
Not leave a thistle on thy land;

Then who will own thee for a Scot?

Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
Through all my empire I foresee,
To tear thy hedges join in leagues,
Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,
Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
To hack my hallow'd timber down;

When thou, suspended high in air,
Diest on a more ignoble tree,

(For thou shalt steal thy landlord's mare,)
Then, bloody caitiff! think on me.”

ЕРІТАРН,

IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE,

HERE lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
His folly serv'd to make folks laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.

Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
What signifies to cry?

Dickies enough are still behind,

To laugh at by and by.

Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63.