The Ghost in Cock-lane, Epigram

But where is this Author, was promis'd so long From Churchill, that giant so stout and so strong? He's sick, Sir, says one,—He's burnt out cries another, And the high flame of genius sinks down into smother. Like the Ghost in Cock-lane, he has frighten'd us all, And knock'd us, and scratch'd us,—the great and the small; But now of his Spirit no more we're afraid, For Parson and Fanny together are laid.