Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?

No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,

Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;
Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,
Draws tears of pity from a barber's block!
* * * * *
A quack, a mere anatomy,
Wanting to buy a nag,
Questions his friend, a wag,
What colour it shall be:
'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course,
For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.'