EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.
Reading edition
Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one who ne'er preferred A Viscount to a Marquis yet.
Beside him place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a star he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's.
Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took of course to peers' relations; And rather than not sport a Lord Put up with even the last creations;
Even Irish names could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call; And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all.
Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For rest his soul! he'd rather be Genteelly damned beside a Duke, Than saved in vulgar company.