Oliver Goldsmith

Since none, when bards submit to fate,
Again to life can raise them,
Awhile, like Kings, they lie in state
For people to be-praise them.

Why, snarling critic, then severe
On poor Nol Goldsmith's puffers?
His farthing watch-light burning clear,
Why bring the candle-snuffers?

Its glimm'ring wherefore would'st prevent?
The save-all is but shallow;
Soon will the sputtering grease be spent,
And stink like common tallow.

Nol, like Dick Blackmore, famous once,
Will be as soon forgotten;
Each Doctor deemed a dismal dunce,
Before his bones be rotten!