His forward muse at variance with his name, Poor Merry sighs for praise, and whines for fame. Merry is gone — No Merry-maker he, For he is dead without posterity! His tragic wife alone he Merry made, She's Merry still in honour to his shade; But when her time's expir'd for looking sad, Quite tir'd of being Merry, she'll be glad, Give birth to native transports and repent Past scenes of unprolific Merriment; Or holding cheap poetic gegaw fame, To taste substantial mirth forego the name. Weep o'er these rhymes, for if you dare to laugh, He'll rise and tear the quibbling epitaph: Stay till his shade has fairly cross'd the Ferry, Then damn his "Pains of Memory," and be Merry.
