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"Secure the radiant weapons wield;
"This golden lance shall guard desert;
"And if a vice dares keep the field,

"This steel shall stab it to the heart."

Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,
Receiv'd the weapons of the sky,
And dipp'd them in the sable well,
The fount of fame or infamy.

"What well? what weapon?" Flavia cries,
"A standish, steel, and golden pen!
"It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;

"I gave it you to write again.

"But, Friend! take heed whom you attack; "You'll bring a House (I mean of Peers) "Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black, "L--- and all about your ears.

"You'd write as smooth again on glass,

"And run on ivory so glib,

"As not to stick at fool or ass,

"Nor stop at flattery or fib.

"Athenian Queen! and sober charms!
"I tell ye, fool! there's nothing in't :
"Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;
"In Dryden's Virgil see the print.
"Come, if you'll be a quiet scul,
"That dares tell neither truth nor lies,
"I'll list you in the harmless roll

"Of those that sing of these poor eyes."

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EPITAPHS

I. On Charles Earl of Dorset, in the church of Withyam, in

Sussex.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fun ar mani
Muncre!

VIRG.

DORSET, the grace of court's, the Muse's pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of Nature, dy'd;
The scourge of pride, tho' sanctify'd or great,
Of fors in learning, and of knaves in state;
Yet soft his nature, tho' severe his lay,

His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Bless'd Satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate, and pity too.

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Bless'd Courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships and his ease.
Bless'd Peer! his great forefathers' ev'ry grace,
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;

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

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II. On Sir William Frumball, one of the principal Secretaries of State to King William III. who, baving resigned bis place, died in his retirement at Easthamstead, in Berkslire, 1716.

A PLEASING form, a firm, yet cautious mind,
Sincere, tho' 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 man was, who now, from earth remov'd,
At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd.

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III. On the Hon. Simon Harcourt, only son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Orfordshire, 1720.

To this sad shrine, who'er thou art, diaw 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 dy 'd.

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!

IV. On James Craggs, Esq. in Westminster Abbey.

JACOBUS CRAGGS.

REGI MAGNE BRITANNIE A SECRETIS
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,

PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIE: VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR

ANNOS, HEU TAUCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XVI. M.DCC.XX.

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.

V. 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.
Volume III.

X

Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too blest!
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies,
What a whole thankless land to his denies.

VI. On Mrs. Corbet, who died of a cancer in her breast.

HERE

ERE rests a woman, good without pretence, Bless'd with plain reason and with sober sense: No conquest 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 try'd,
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.

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VII. On the Monument of the Hon. Robert Digby, and of his sister Mary, erected by their fa:ber 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 suff'rings, 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:

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