Die, envy, die; for now great Pope is dead, No other's verse with envy will be read.
ANOTHER, BY THE SAME HAND. Seal up the book, all vison's at an end, For who durst now to poetry pretend? Since Pope is dead, it must be sure confest, The Muses sacred inspiration's ceas'd; And we may only, what is writ, rehearse: His works are the apocolypse of verse.
