Here, like a blotted, marr'd, ill finished page.
On which the maker's image was impress'd.
But torn and tarnish'd by blind passion' rage
A little restless thing is gone to rest.
Where Prince nor Prelate dared attempt command
He ruled—and set the snarling world at strife ;
He hated peace— still rais'd his smutty hand
To give sage nonsense an eternal life.
He, as a fitting tool, old Pompous tried—
He breathed the venom of his thoughts—and died.