Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts / part I, occasionally written by Mrs. Jane Barker, part II, by several gentlemen of the universities, and others.

An ELEGY on the Death of N. D. Doctor of Physick.

By I. C.

WHat, will my Mourning yet no period find! Must sighs & sorrow still distract my Mind? My Sense grows ••eeble, and my Reason's gone, Passion and Discontent usurp the Throne. With blubber'd Eyes my veiled sight grows dim; Ah, cruel Death, cou'd you ••ind none but him To gratifie your hungry Iaws withall; Or, if in haste, none but a Doctor's fall?

Howe'er, you might forbore your stroke a while; But possibly you thought, he might beguile Your craving Appetite of many more, Which you expected to strike long before. But sure my Mind's disturb'd, my Passions rav••, To censure Death, and quarrel with the Grave•• Alas, he's bound, the blow he cannot give, Till his Commission shews we must not live. Yet hence we learn, and may this inf'rence make, That if Physicians Souls their Iourney take Into a distant Climate, well may Ours: Then with what care ought we to spend those hours, Or rather few remaining Sands, which are In so much Bounty tender'd to our care? The purest Druggs, compos'd with greatest Skill, Can't preserve Life, when Death has pow'r to kill: Peasant and Prince are both to him alike, And with an equal blow doth either strike. All must surrender when his Arm is stretch't, With such a weighty force his blow is fetch't. But oh! I wander from my Virtuous Friend; 'Tis true indeed he's dead, but yet no end

Can e'er obscure or hide his Honour'd Name, For o'er the World the Golden Wings of Fame Shall spread his praise, and to his Friends proclaim, That whilst alive, His Soul was always drest VVith Robes of Innocence; the peacefull Guest Of a good Conscience, ever fill'd his Breast. His smiling Countenance abroad wou'd send His hearty Wishes to his real Friend; His Words were few, but of important weight, Mix'd with no stains of flatt'ry, or deceit. Too much in's way his Library has stood, Himself he minded not for others good. 'Tis strange! to think he shou'd himself neglect, VVhose study 'twas to cure what e'er defect Nature might fall into; yet this he did: In short, his Worth, though smother'd, can't be hid. To sound his Praise may th' utmost Skill ingage, Since that he dy'd the Wonder of his Age. VVell may his friends then, and acquaintance weep, VVhen such a brave Physician's fall'n asleep.