Not Kings depos'd, Nor Prelats when they dye,Feel half the rage of Generals when they flie:Ah! rather then transmit our scorn to Fame.Draw Curtains (gentle Artist) o're the shame.Cashier the memory of Dutel, raised upTo taste (instead of death) his Highness Cup:And if the thing were true, yet paint it notHow Berkley (as he long deserv'd) was shot;Though others, that survai'd the corps (too clear)Say onely, he was putrifi'd with fear,And the hard Statue Mummied without Gumme,Might the Dutch Balm have ipar'd an English tombBut if thou wilt paint Minns turn'd all to soul,And the great Harman charkt almost to cole,And Iordan old, thy Pencils worthy pain,Who all the way held up the Dukal-train:But in a dark cloud cover Ascough, whenHe quit the Prince; t'imbarque in Lovesteain.And wounded Ships, which we immortal boast,Now first led Captive to an hostile coast;But must with Story of the Hand or ThumbConceal, as Honour would, his Graces Bum,When the rude bullet a large collop toreOut of that buttock, never turn'd before:Fortune it seems would give him by that lash,Gentle correction, for his fight so rash;But should the Rump perceiv't, they'd say that MarsHad now reveng'd them upon Aumars Arse.The long disaster better o're to vail,Paint only Jonas three dayes in the Whale;0