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Sony HE Praise, that in thy LIFE we durft ng:

Is safely offer'd to the silent Clay:

Hero's and Poets are of equal Fame,
And after Death their Shrines an Incense claim.


may the Lays caft. Luftre o'er thy Urn, Like Lamps that ihi Sepulchral Marbles burn; Which waiting on the Minutes of Decay, i Watchfully pious waste themselves away.


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SCANDAL and Envy fly the sacred Ground,
Or come with new-felt Awe, and fear to wound,
Thus Lions once forget their wonted Rage,
When the great Prophet lodgʻd within the Cage.


Doubtful of Choice, whom first shall I commend,
The Man, the Patriot, Poet, or the Friend?
In single Characters too rarely met,
But all in Thee, like Gems in Circles set.
So common Trees their single Fruits produce,
But the rich Vine in Clusters lends its Juice.

...While other Jumpifh Wits have labour'd long,
At a dull Satyr, or a nothng Song;
Thy quicker Genius, with a happy Flight,
Shot to the destin'd Mark, and hit the White;
Thus heavy Fowl, scarce flutter by our Eyes,
The Lark in Minutes mounts from Earth to Skies.

Whatever Virtues of the Social Kind,
Old Sages taught, or Modern Wit refind;
Grew from thy Nature, as its proper Root,
Art gave them Flow’rs, and Learning solid Fruit,
Well didft thou chuse a Science from the rest,
Where thy Humanity might fine confeft,
*To fhew Heav'ns Blessings not bestow'd in vain,
Smooth the sick Couch, and calm the midnight Pain.


To make the World unmock'd by happy Skies,
And bid the Sun with chearful Luftre rise.

Thrice happy Skill! when thy Professors know The secret Joy of mitigating Woe; Studious of Health, unmindful of the Gain, While they give Aid, they share a Suff'rers Pain. O'er the pale Virgin's fading Roses mourn, And fightill fick’ning Chiefs for Conquests burn. Such, GART H, were Marks of thy excelling Art, These built a College in each grateful Heart.

0! may the pious Youth to Thee return,
The Grief once destin'd to his Parent's Urn,
The Tears thy Pow'r from Nations us’d to save,
For dying Patriots flow upon thy Graye!
But most the Muse with tuneful Sorrow striye,
To deck thy Tomb, and keep thy Fame alive.

Vain Hopes in them For as when Kings are Nain, The Palaces they rais’d their Pride maintain ; So to late Times thy polish'd Work shall stand, Spreading the Glory of the Builder's Hand; With thy own NASSAU, and thy MARLBRO' live, And equal Fame receive, and equal give.

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E little Loves, that round her wait,

To bring me Tidings of my Fate;
As CELIA on her Pillow lies,
Ah, gently Whisper, STRE PHON dien


If this will not her Pity move,
And the proud Fair disdains to love ;
Smile, and say, 'tis all a Lye,
And haughty STRE PHON scorns to dye


Upon seeing a L A D Y Embroider.


S in the Web Amynta tries,

From Nature's self, to win the Prize;
On her soft Limbs she means to wear
The blooming Work her Hands prepare.
What Art and Fancy can bestow,
Those Silken Sprigs already Show;
When to her lovely Waste they cleave,
Their Sweetness too they'll soon receive.
Yet strange! the Fair One should incline,
With such prepoft'rous Skill to shine
In Summer's Pride, and Flow'rs drest,
Whilft Ice and Winter's in her Breast.



TO, I shan't envy him, whoe'er he be,

That stands upon the Battlements of State; Stand there who will for me,

I'd rather be Secure than Great;

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