Of gentle blood, his parents’ only treasure,
  Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish’d pleasure,
  Adorn’d with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
  A large provision for so short a race;
  More moderate gifts might have prolong’d his date,
  Too early fitted for a better state;
  But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
  He leap’d o’er age, and took the shortest way.

* * * * *

VIII.

ON THE DEATH OF MR PURCELL.

SET TO MUSIC BY DR BLOW.

1 Mark how the lark and linnet sing;
With rival notes
They strain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the spring. 
But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her music with delight,
And, listening, silently obey.

2 So ceased the rival crew, when Purcell came;
They sung no more, or only sung his fame: 
Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man: 
The godlike man,
Alas! too soon retired,
As he too late began. 
We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore: 
Had he been there,
Their sovereign’s fear
Had sent him back before. 
The power of harmony too well they knew: 
He long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere,
And left no hell below.

3 The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high,
Let down the scale of music from the sky: 
They handed him along,
And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung
Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,
Lament his lot; but at your own rejoice: 
Now live secure, and linger out your days;
The gods are pleased alone with Purcell’s lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.

* * * * *

IX.

EPITAPH ON THE LADY WHITMORE.

Fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend in one,
Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband’s cost,
Here sadly summing what he had, and lost. 
  Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first, and offer at her sacred shrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer life;
And wish your vows, like hers, may be return’d,
So loved when living, and when dead so mourn’d.

* * * * *

X.

EPITAPH ON SIR PALMES FAIRBONE’S TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

SACRED TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF SIR PALMES FAIRBONE, KNIGHT, GOVERNOR OF TANGIER; IN EXECUTION OF WHICH COMMAND, HE WAS MORTALLY WOUNDED BY A
SHOT FROM THE MOORS, THEN BESIEGING THE TOWN, IN THE FORTY-SIXTH YEAR OF
HIS AGE.  OCTOBER 24, 1680.