Give then, poor tinkling bellman of four-score,
Give thy lewd rhymes, thy lewder converse o'er, 156
Thy envy, hate; and, while thou yet hast power,
On other thoughts employ the unvalued hour;
Lest, as from crazy eld's diseaseful bed,

Thou lift'st, TO SPIT AT HEAVEN, thy palsied head,
THE BLOW arrive; and thou, reduced by fate, 161
To change thy frenzy for despair too late,
Close thy dim eyes a moment in the tomb,

To wake for ever in THE WORLD TO COME,

Wake to meet HIM whose "Ord'nance thou hast slaved,"*

Whose Mercy slighted, and whose Justice braved!

For ME-Why should'st thou with abortive toil, Waste the poor remnant of thy sputtering oil, In filth and falsehood? Ignorant and absurd! Pause from thy pains, and take my closing word; 170 Thou canst not think, nor have I power to tell,

How much I SCORN and LOATH thee-so, farewell!

the lust-dieted man

That slaves thy ord'nance, &c.

London: Printed by W. Bulmer and Co.

Cleveland-row, St. James's.

KING LEAR.

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