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He leave thy praise to those shall do thee right, Good will, not skill, did cause me bring my mite. HIS EPITAPH. Here lyes the Pearle of France, Parnassus glory; The World rejoyc'd at's birth, at's death, was sorry, Art and Nature joyn'd, by heavens high decree Naw shew'd what once they ought, Humanity!
He was not a little rejoyc'd at his good Fortune in getting so early a Favour from his Mistress, and notwithstanding the violence he did himself to personate a sick Man, he could not forbear giving some Symptoms of an extraordinary content; and telling her that he did not doubt to receive a considerable Proportion of ease from the Application of what had so often kiss'd her fair Hand.
Within this Tomb a Patriot lyes That was both pious, just and wise, To Truth a shield, to right a Wall, To Sectaryes a whip and Maul, A Magazine of History, A Prizer of good Company In manners pleasant and severe The Good him lov'd, the bad did fear, And when his time with years was spent If some rejoyc'd, more did lament.
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