When the broad-bottom
'd Junto, with reason at strife,
Resign'd, with a sigh, its political life;
When converted to Rome, and of honesty tired,
They gave back to the Devil the soul he inspired.
The Demon of Faction, that over them hung,
In accents of horror their epitaph sung;
While Pride and Venality join'd in the stave,
And canting Democracy wept at the grave.
'Here lies in the tomb that we hollow'd for Pitt,
'Consistence
of Grenville, of Temple the wit;
'Of Sidmouth the firmness, the temper of Grey,
'And Treasurer Sheridan's promise to pay.
'Here Petty's finance, from the evils to come,
'With Fitzpatrick'
s sobriety creeps to the tomb;
'And Chancellor Ego, now left in the lurch,
'Neither dines with the Jordan, nor whines for the church.
'Then huzza for the Party that here is at rest,
'By the fools of a faction regretted and blest;
'Though they sleep with the Devil, yet theirs is the 'hope,
'On the downfall of Britain to rise with the Pope.'