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He long ere this had tun'd their jarring spliore, So ceas'à che rival crew, when Purcell came ;

And left no hell below. They sung no more, or only sung his fame : Struck dumb, they all admir'd the godlike man : The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high, The godlike man,

Let down the scale of music from the sky : Alas! too soon retir'd,

They handed him along, As he too late began.

And all the way he taught, and allthewaythey sung, We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore:

Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice, Had he been there,

Lament his loc; but at your own rejoice : Their sovereign's fear

Now live secure, and linger out your days; Had lent him back before.

The gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's lays, The power of harmony too well they knew :

Nor know to mend their choice.

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Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir Palmes Fairbone, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in cxccution of which command, he was mortally wounded by a shot from the Moors,

then beliegiog the town, in the forty-fixth year of his age, OA. 24, 1680.

Ye sacred relics, which your marble kcep,
Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet seep :
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,
Fairbone's undaunted soul did undergo,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.

Alive and dead there walls he will defend :
Great actions grcat examples must attend.
The Candian fiege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands im.


From thence returning with deserv'd applause, Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright, 7
Against the Moors his well-flesh'd sword he Like rising flames expanding in their height;

The martyr's glory crown'd the soldier's fight.
The same the courage, and the same the cause. More bravely British general never fell,
His youth and age, his life and death, com Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd lo well;

Which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close,
As in fome great and regular design,

Follow'd by thousand victims of his focs.
All of a picce throughout, and all divine.

To his lamented lofs for time to come
His pious widow confecrates this tomb.

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Below this marble monument is laid
All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
Preserve, O sacred tomb, thy trust consign'd;
'The mould was made on purpose for the mind :
And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
One atom could be mix'd of other clay.
Such were the features of her heavenly face,
Her limbs were form’d with such harmonious grace:
So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the soul;
Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd;
And like a picture fhone, in glass anneal'd.
Or like the sun eclips'd, with thuded light :
Too piercing, elle, to be sustain'd by fight.
Each thought was visible that roll's within :
As through a crystal case the figur'd hours are seen.
And heaven did this transparent veil provide,
Because ihe had no guilty thought to hide.

All white, a virgin-saint, she fought the skies:
For marriage, though it Sullies not, it dies.
High though her wit, yet humble was her mind:
As if the could not, or the would not find
How much her worth transcended all her kind.
Yet she had learn'd so much of heaven below,
That when arriv’d, she fcarce had more to know:
But only to refresh the former hint;
And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, as she had no time to spare
For human thoughts, but was confin’d to prayer.
Yet in such charitics she pass'd the day,
'Twas wondrous how the found an hour to pray.
A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which pallion could but curl, not discompose.
A female foftocfs, with a manly mind :
A daughter duteous, and a lifler kind :
In fickness patient, and in death resign'd.

Toth upper empty regions of the world :
"The airy thing cuts through the yielding sky;
And as it goes does into atoms ily:
The bird of prey turn'd to a paper kite.

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IN 1687

Herz lies a creature of indulgent fate,
From Tory Hyde rais'd to a chit of state;
Lo chariot now, Elisha like, he's hurla

With drunken pride and rage he did so well,
The hated thing without compassion fell;
By powerful force of universal prayer,
The ill-blowo bubble is now turn'd to air ;
To his firft less than nothing he is gone,
By his preposterous transaction!

While we on earth see, with no imall delight,

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But Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory,
These will appear such chits in story,

'Twill turn all politics to jests.
To be repeated like John Dory,
When fidlers ling at feasts.

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