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I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,
I fly from falsehood's specious grin; Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings at an Inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lacqueys else might hope to win; It buys what Courts have not in store,
It buys me Freedom, at an Inn. And now once more I shape my way
Through rain or shine, through thick or thin, Secure to meet, at close of day,
With kind reception at an Inn. Whoe'er has travell’d life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think how oft he found The warmest welcome-at an Inn.
As t'other day o'er the green meadow I pass’d,
YOUNG Colin protests I'm his joy and delight ;
His pleasure all day is to sit by my side ;
He often requests me his flame to relieve;
This breast-knot he yesterday brought from the wake,
Were I a king, I could command content ;
Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford.
THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE,
I SENT for Ratcliffe ; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over :
And I was likely to recover.
And wine had warm’d the politician,
UNDERNEATH this sable hearse
A FUNERAL stone,
Or verse, I covet none;
Which being seen
May grow to be
Not so much call'd a tree,
UPON A LADY THAT DIED IN CHILD-BED,
AND LEFT A DAUGHTER BEHIND HER.
As gilly-flowers do but stay
UPON THE DEATH OF SIR A. MORTON'S
He first deceased ; she, for a little, tried
Sir Henry Wotton.
FOR MY OWN MONUMENT. As doctors give physic by way of prevention,
Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care;
May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.
That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ;
For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
His virtues and vices were as other men's are ;
In a life party-colour’d, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; in public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord ! how merry was he. Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here,
And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found ; False witness at court, and fierce tempests
So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.
To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom, Not forced him wander, but confined him home.
EPITAPH FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE
BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBE Y.
HEROES and kings ! your distance keep,