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Flourish'd in so fair a growth;

So sweet the temple was, that shrined
The sacred sweetness of his mind;
That could the Fates know to relent,
Could they know what mercy meant,
Or had ever learn'd to bear

The soft tincture of a tear,

Tears would now have flowed so deep,
As might have taught Grief how to weep.
Now all their steely operation,

Would quite have lost the cruel fashion.
Sickness would have gladly been
Sick himself to have saved him ;
And his fever wished to prove
Burning only in his love.

Him when Wrath itself had seen
Wrath itself had lost his spleen.
Grim Destruction here amazed,

Instead of striking, would have gazed.
Even the iron-pointed pen,

That notes the tragic dooms of men,
Wet with tears 'still'd from the eyes
Of the flinty Destinies,

Would have learned a softer style,
And have been ashamed to spoil
His life's sweet story, by the haste
Of a cruel stop ill-placed.

In the dark volume of our fate,

Whence each leaf of life hath date,
Where in sad particulars

The total sum of man appears;

And the short clause of mortal breath,

Bound in the period of Death:

In all the book, if anywhere

Such a term as this, Spare here,

Could have been found, 'twould have been read,

Writ in white letters o'er his head:

Or close unto his name annexed,

The fair gloss of a fairer text.
In brief, if any one were free,
He was that one, and only he.

But he, alas! even he is dead,
And our hopes' fair harvest spread
In the dust! Pity, now spend

All the tears that Grief can lend.
Sad Mortality may hide

In his ashes all her pride;

With this inscription o'er his head :
All hope of never dying here is dead.

his Epitaph.

Passenger, whoe'er thou art,

Stay awhile, and let thy heart
Take acquaintance of this stone,
Before thou passest further on;


This stone will tell thee, that beneath
Is entombed the crime of Death;
The ripe endowments of whose mind
Left his years so much behind,
That numbering of his virtues' praise,
Death lost the reckoning of his days;
And believing what they told,
Imagined him exceeding old.
In him Perfection did set forth
The strength of her united worth ;
Him his wisdom's pregnant growth
Made so reverend, even in youth,
That in the centre of his breast
(Sweet as is the phoenix' nest)
Every reconciled grace

Had their general meeting-place.
In him Goodness joy'd to see
Learning learn humility;

The splendour of his birth and blood.

Was but the gloss of his own good.

The flourish of his sober youth

Was the pride of naked truth.
In composure of his face

Lived a fair, but manly grace;

His mouth was Rhetoric's best mould, His tongue the touchstone of her gold; What word soe'er his breath kept warm, Was no word now but a charm:


For all persuasive Graces thence
Sucked their sweetest influence.
His virtue that within had root,
Could not choose but shine without;
And th' heart-bred lustre of his worth,
At each corner peeping forth,
Pointed him out in all his ways,
Circled round in his own rays:
That to his sweetness all men's eyes
Were vow'd Love's flaming sacrifice.

Him while fresh and fragrant Time
Cherish'd in his golden prime;

Ere Hebe's hand had overlaid

His smooth cheeks with a downy shade;
The rush of Death's unruly wave

Swept him off into his grave.

Enough, now (if thou canst) pass on, For now (alas!) not in this stone (Passenger, whoe'er thou art)

Is he entomb'd, but in thy heart.


An Epitaph upon Doctor Brook.

A Brook, whose stream so great, so good,

Was loved, was honour'd as a flood:
Whose banks the Muses dwelt upon,
More than their own Helicon;

Here at length hath gladly found

A quiet passage under ground;
Meanwhile his loved banks, now dry,
The Muses with their tears supply.


An Epitaph upon Mr. Ashton, a Conformable Citizen.

The modest front of this small floor,

Believe me, Reader, can say more

Than many a braver marble can,
Here lies a truly honest man.

One whose conscience was a thing
That troubled neither Church nor King.
One of those few that in this town
Honour all Preachers, hear their own.
Sermons he heard, yet not so many
As left no time to practise any.
He heard them reverently, and then
His practice preached them o'er again.
His Parlour-Sermons rather were

Those to the eye than to the ear.

His prayers took their price and strength
Not from the loudness, nor the length.
He was a Protestant at home

Not only in despite of Rome.

He loved his Father; yet his zeal

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