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Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first, and offer at her facred fhrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the reft, with longer life;
And with your vows, like hers, may be return'd,
So lov'd when living, and when dead fo mourn'd.


Epitaph on Sir PALMES FAIREONE's Tomb in Westminster-Abbey.

Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir PALMES FAIRBONE, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command, he was mortally wounded by a hot from the Moors, then befieging the town, in the forty-fixth year of his age, October 24, 1680.

E facred relics, which your marble keep,


Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet fleep :
Discharge the truft, which, when it was below,
Fairbone's undaunted foul did undergo,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead thefe walls he will defend :
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian fiege his early valour knew,
Where Turkifh blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deferv'd applause,
Against the Moors his well-flefh'd fword he draws;
The fame the courage, and the fame the caufe.


His youth and age, his life and death, combine,
As in fome great and regular defign,

All of a piece throughout, and all divine..
Still nearer heaven his virtues fhone more bright,
Like rifing flames expanding in their height;
The martyr's glory crown'd the foldier's fight.
More bravely British general never fell,

Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd fo well;
Which his pleas'd eyes beheld before their close,
Follow'd by thoufand victims of his foes.

To his lamented lofs for time to come
His pious widow confecrates this tomb.


Under Mr. MILTON'S Picture, before his
Paradife Loft.

THREE Poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.

The first, in loftiness of thought furpafs'd;
The next, in majefty; in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, the join'd the former two.


On the MONUMENT of a fair Maiden Lady, who died at Bath, and is there interred.

BELOW this marble monument is laid

All that heaven wants of this celeftial maid.

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A foul fo calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which paffion could but curl, not difcompofe.
A female softness, with a manly mind:
A daughter duteous, and a fifter kind:
In fickness patient, and in death resign'd.



EPITAPH on Mrs. MARGARET PASTON, of Burningham, in Norfolk.


O fair, so young, fo innocent, fo fweet,
So ripe a judgment, and fo rare a wit,
Require at least an age in one to meet.
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
Heaven's image was in her fo well expreft,
Her very fight upbraided all the reft;
Too justly ravish'd from an age like this,
Now he is gone, the world is of a piece.



HE, who in impious times undaunted food,

And midft rebellion durft be juft and good:

Whose arms afferted, and whofe fufferings more
Confirm'd the caufe for which he fought before;
Refts here, rewarded by an heavenly prince;
For what his earthly could not recompence.
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Pray reader that such times no more appear :
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,

Which, to preferve them, heaven confin'd in thee.
Few fubjects could a king like thine deserve :
And fewer, fuch a king, fo well could ferve.
Bleft king, bleft fubject, whofe exalted state
By fufferings rofe, and gave the law to fate.
Such fouls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.


EPITAPH upon the Earl of ROCHESTER'S being difmiffed from the Treasury, in 1687.

HERE lies a creature of indulgent fate,

From Tory Hyde rais'd to a chit of state;
In chariot now, Elisha like, he's hurl'd
To th' upper empty regions of the world:
'The airy thing cuts through the yielding sky;
And as it goes does into atoms fly :

While we on earth fee, with no small delight,
The bird of prey turn'd to a paper kite.
With drunken pride and rage he did fo well,
The hated thing without compaffion fell;
By powerful force of universal prayer,
The ill-blown bubble is now turn'd to air;
To his first less than nothing he is gone,
By his prepofterous tranfaction!


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