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EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY.
Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,
ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE BY HERSELF.
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
Than plaything for a nurse,
I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
For richest rogues to win it;
The best things kept within it.
INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
TO MRS. UNWIN.
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
A chronicle of actions just and bright; There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. ON HIS PRESENTING
ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.
KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee: .
Joy too and grief-much joy that there should be, Wise men and learn’d, who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn; critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,
Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou—like our forefather Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NO RAIN HAD
FALLEN THERE. If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the church, endow'd With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING
A YOUNG BIRD.
A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat
And ease a doggish pain,
You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man? July 15, 1793.
Sir, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
And harder to withstand.
A mightier cried—Proceed ! -
Impell’d me to the deed.
Her precept for your sake ;
Passing his prison door,
And panting press'd the floor,
Not destined to my tooth,
And lick’d the feathers smooth.