Ev'n in those days some few escap'd the fate,
By better judgment, or a longer date,
And rode, like buoys, triumphant o'er the tide.
Poor Otway, in an ale-house dos'd and dy'd!
While happier Southern, tho' with sports of yore,
Like Plato's hov'ring spirits, crusted o'er,
Liv'd every mortal vapour to remove,
And to our admiration, join'd our love.