EPILOGUE.

365

THE ALCHYMIST.

His time and health the Alchymist destroys,

In vain pursuit of visionary joys !

What if he find the rare and hidden treasure,

More pain his golden prize would bring than pleasure.

Gold ! Gold! thou bane of life ! thou fancied good,

Thy use to Man, how little understood !

ACADEMIC HONOURS.

Should I the Martyr Student's portrait draw,And shew that genius, with each good combin'd,That virtue, and that nobleness of mind,Were his, without a blemish or a flaw—

You'd blame me for my act—and yet 'twas kind!For well I knew, although he'd worth and merit,Posthumous fame was all that he'd inherit;And those, indeed, who court fame ought to know,That Death alone can lasting fame bestow.

THE EMPIRIC.

The Quack kill'd his patient, and I kill'd the Quack ;

Thus a fool and a knave were got rid of at once ;But tho' I contriv'd to lay him on his back,

Behind he's left many a death-dealing dunce!