Immortall BEN is dead; and as that ball
On Ida toss'd, so is his Crowne by all
The Infantry of wit. Vaine Priests! That chaire
Is only fit for his true Sonne and Heire.
Reach here the Lawrell: Randolph , 'tis thy praise;
Thy naked Scull shall well become the Bayes.
See, Daphne courts thy Ghost: and spite of fate,
Thy Poims shall be Poet Laureat .