412 AiMie Bradjl reefs Works.
Like a mofl fervile flatterer he will fliow
Though he write truth, and make the fubjeft, You.
Virtue ne're dies, time will a Poet raife
Born under better Starrs, fliall fmg thy praife.
Praife her who lift, yet he fliall be a debtor
For Art ne're feign'd, nor Nature fl^am'd a better.
Her virtues were fo great, that they do raife
A work to trouble fame, aftonifli praife.
When as her Name doth but falute the ear, [255]
Men think that they perfe(5lions abftra6t hear.
Her breaft was a brave Pallace, a Broad-Jlreet,
Where all heroick ample thoughts did meet,
Where nature fuch a Tenement had tane,
That others fouls, to hers, dwelt in a lane.
Beneath her feet, pale envy bites her chain.
And poifon Malice, whetts her fting in vain.
Let every Laurel, every Myrtel bough
Be ftript for leaves t' adorn and load her brow.
Victorious wreathes, which 'caufe they never fade
Wife elder times for Kings and Poets made.
Let not her happy memor}^ e're lack
Its worth in Fames eternal Almanack,
Which none fliall read, but ftraight their lofs deplore,
And blame their Fates they were not born before.
Do not old men rejoyce their Fates did laft,
And infants too, that theirs did make fuch haft,
In fuch a welcome time to bring them forth,
That they mi^rht be a witnefs to her worth.
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