COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY LATELY PUBLISHED.
THAT flesh is grass is now as clear as day,
To any but the merest purblind pup;
Death cuts it down, and then, to make her hay,
My Lady B—— comes and rakes it up.
THE LAST WISH.
When I resign this world so briary,
To have across the Styx my ferrying,
Oh, may I die without a DIARY!
And be interr’d without a BURY-ing!
THE poor dear dead have been laid out in vain,
Turn’d into cash, they are laid out again!