Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts
EPITAPH ON THE SECRETARY to the MUSES.
UNder this weeping Monumental Stone
There lies a Scribe, who, while he liv'd, was known
To ev'ry Bawd, Whore, Pimp, Fop, Fool in Town,
For scandal he was born, and we shall find,
That now he's dead, there's little left behind:
Vast was his Courage, witness all the store
Of noble Scars, that to his Grave he bore;
All got in War, for he abhorr'd a Whore.
Of spreading Libels nothing shall be said,
Because 'twas that which brought him in his Bread,
And 'tis a crime to vilifie the Dead.
His Honour for Religion still was great,
In Covent-Garden Church he'd slumb'ring sit,
To shew his Piety was like his Wit.
Page 66But above all, Drink was his chief delight;
He drank all day, yet left not off at night:
Drink was his Mistress; Drinking was his Health;
For without Drinking he was ne'er himself.
Ah, cruel Gods! what Mercy can ye boast
If the poor Secretary's frighted Ghost
Shou'd chance to touch upon the Stygian Coast?
But ah his loss, 'tis now too late to Mourn;
He's gone, and Fate admits of no return.
But whither is he gone? to's Grave, no doubt;
Where, if there's any Drink, he'll find it out.