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Updated: May 25, 2025
I can now excuse all his foibles; impute them to age, and to distress of circumstances: the last of these considerations wrings my very soul to think on. He died July 19, 1742, and was buried at Wotton, near Henley on Arden. His distresses need not be much pitied: his estate is said to be fifteen hundred a year, which by his death has devolved to Lord Somervile of Scotland.
Somervile has tried many modes of poetry; and though perhaps he has not in any reached such excellence as to raise much envy, it may commonly be said at least, that "he writes very well for a gentleman." His serious pieces are sometimes elevated; and his trifles are sometimes elegant.
He had inherited the fortune of a brother who died Governor of Madras. He had purchased an estate in Warwickshire, and had been welcomed to his domain in very tolerable verse by one of the neighboring squires, the poetical fox-hunter, William Somervile.
Of the close of his life, those whom his poems have delighted will read with pain the following account, copied from the "Letters" of his friend Shenstone, by whom he was too much resembled: " Our old friend Somervile is dead! I did not imagine I could have been so sorry as I find myself on this occasion. Sublatum quaerimus.
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