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But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed, Beneath a nobler roof--the sky.

Such flames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.

VERSES TO MR. C.

St. James's Place, London, October 22.

FEW

EW words are best; I wish you well; Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here: Some morning-walks along the Mall, And evening friends, will end the year.

If, in this interval, between

The falling leaf and coming frost, You please to see, on Twit'nam green,

Your friend, your poet, and your host; For three whole days you here may rest,

From office, business, news, and strife; And (what most folks would think a jest) Want nothing else, except your wife.

EPITAPHS.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere!

VIRG.

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

D%

In the Church of Withyam, in Sussex.

ORSET, the grace of courts, the muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Blest satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.

Blest courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;

Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBALL,

One of the principal Secretaries of State to King William the Third, who, having resigned his Place, died in his Retirement at Easthamsted, in Berkshire, 1716.

A

PLEASING form;

firm, yet cautious mind;

Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd; Honour unchang'd, a principle profest,

Fix'd to one side, but mod'rate to the rest:
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too ;
Just to his prince, and to his country true:
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth:
A gen'rous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:
Such this mau was; who now from earth remov'd,
At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT,

Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720.

TO this sad shrine, whoc'er thou art, draw near;

Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most dear;
Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Oh let thy once-lov'd friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own!

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

In Westminster Abbey.

JACOBUS CRAGGS,

REGI MAGNE BRITANNIE A SECRETIS ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIA,

VIXIT, TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR,
ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,

In action faithful, and in honour clear! Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd.

INTENDED FOR MR. ROWE,

In Westminster Abbey.

THY reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust:
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest!
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies.

ON MRS. CORBET,

Who died of a Cancer in her Breast.

HERE rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:
No conquests she, but o'er herself, desir'd,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc'd that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so compos'd a mind;

So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refin'd;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HONOURABLE ROBERT DIGBY, 1 AND OF HIS SISTER MARY,

Erected by their Father, the Lord Digby, in the Church of Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, 1727.

GO! fair example of untainted youth,

Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth;. Compos'd in sufferings, and in joy sedate, Good without noise, without pretension great: Just of thy word, in ev'ry thought sincere, Who knew no wish but what the world might hear:

Of softest manners, unaffected mind,

Lover of peace, and friend of human kind:

Go, live! for heaven's eternal year is thine,
Go, and exalt thy moral to divine!

And thou, blest maid! attendant on his doom, Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb,

U

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