When Alexander Pope strolled in the city Strict was the glint of pearl and ``old sedans. Ladies leaned out more out of fear than pity For Pope`s tight back was rather a goat`s than man`s Often one thinks the urn should have more bones Than skeletons provide for speedy dust, The urn gets hollow, cobwebs brittle as stones Weave to the funeral shell a frivolous rust. And he who dribbled couplets like a snake Coiled to a lithe precision in the sun Is missing. The jar is empty; you may break It only to find that Mr. Pope is gone. What requisitions of a verity Prompted the wit and rage between his teeth One cannot say. Around a crooked tree A moral climbs whose name should be a wreath.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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