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UNDERNEATH this marble stone,

Lie two beauties join'd in one.


Two, whofe loves death could not fever s For both liv'd, both dy'd together.


Two, whose fouls, being too dívine

- For earth, in their own sphere now shine.


Who have left their loves to fame,
And their earth to earth again.

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On the Death of the Right Honourable DUDLEY Lord CARLETON, Viscount DORCHESTER,

Late Principal Secretary of State.

H' infernal fifters did a council call:


Of all the fiends, to the black Stygian hall;
The dire Tartarian monfters, hating light,
Begot by difmal Erebus and Night,

Where'er difpers'd abroad, hearing the fame
Of their accurfed meeting, thither came.
Revenge, whofe greedy mind no blood can fill,
And Envy, never fatisfy'd with ill :

Thither blind Boldnefs, and impatient Rage,
Reforted, with Death's neighbour, envious Age.
Thefe, to opprefs the earth, the Furies fent *:
The council thus diffolv'd, an angry Fever,
Whofe quenchless thirst by blood was sated never,
Envying the riches, honour, greatnefs, love,
And virtue (load-stone, that all these did move)

Something is here wanting, as appears from the

want both of rhyme and connexion. N.


Of noble Carleton, him fhe took away,
And like a greedy vulture feiz'd her


Weep with me, each who either reads or hears,
And know his loss deserves his country's tears!
The Mufes loft a patron by his fate,

Virtue a husband, and a prop the State.
Sol's chorus weeps, and, to adorn his hearse,
Calliope would fing a tragic verse.

And, had there been before no spring of theirs,
They would have made a Helicon with tears.



On the Death of my loving Friend and Coufin RICHARD CLARKE, GENT. Late of Lincoln's-Inn.


T was decreed by stedfast destiny


(The world from chaos turn'd) that all should die. He who durft fearless pafs black Acheron,

And dangers of th' infernal region,

Leading hell's triple porter captivate,
Was overcome himself by conquering Fate.
The Roman Tully's pleafing eloquence,
Which in the ears did lock up every sense
Of the rapt hearer; his mellifluous breath
Could not at all charm unremorseless Death;




Nor Solon, fo by Greece admir'd, could fave
Himself, with all his wisdom, from the grave.
Stern Fate brought Maro to his funeral flame,
And would have ended in that fire his fame;
Burning those lofty lines, which now shall be
Time's conquerers, and out-last eternity.

Even fo lov'd Clarke from death no 'fcape could find,
Though arm'd with great Alcides' valiant mind.
He was adorn'd, in years though far more young,
With learned Cicero's, or a fweeter tongue.
And, could dead Virgil hear his lofty strain,
'He would condemn his own to fire again.
His youth a Solon's wisdom did prefage,
Had envious Time but giv'n him Solon's age.

Who would not therefore now, if Learning's friend,
Bewail his fatal and untimely end?

Who hath fuch hard, fuch unrelenting eyes,
As not to weep when fo much virtue dies?
The God of poets doth in darkness shrowd
His glorious face, and weeps behind a cloud.
The doleful Mufes thinking now to write
Sad elegies, their tears confound their sight :
But him t' Elyfium's lafting joys they bring,
Where winged angels his fad requiems fing.

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PHOEBUS, expell'd by the approaching night,
Blush'd, and for fhame clos'd in his bafhful light,
While I, with leaden Morpheus overcome,
The Mufe whom I adore enter'd the room:
Her hair with loofer curiofity

Did on her comely back dishevel❜d lie:


eyes with such attractive beauty fhone,
As might have wak'd fleeping Endymion.
She bade me rife, and promis'd I should fee
Those fields, thofe mansions of felicity,
We mortals fo admire at: fpeaking thus,
She lifts me up upon wing'd Pegasus,
On whom I rid; knowing, wherever the
go, that place must needs a Tempe be.
No fooner was my flying courfer come
To the bleft dwellings of Elyfium,

When strait a thou fand unknown joys refort,

And hemm'd me round; chaste Love's innocuous fport! A thousand sweets, bought with no following gall,

Joys, not like ours, fhort, but perpetual.

How many objects charm my wandering eye,
And bid my foul gaze there eternally!

Here in full ftreams, Bacchus, thy liquor flows,
Nor knows to ebb; here Jove's broad tree bestows
Distilling honey; here doth nectar pass,

With copious current, through the verdant grafs:

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