MATTHEW PRIOR
Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,
His virtues and vices as other men's were;
High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears, In a life parti-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make interest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And, alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he'
Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;
And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse, little polishM, tho' mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view, It says that his relics collected lie here,
And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there arc that infest the highway, So Mat may be kilPd, and his bones never found;
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.
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