To his Original Dust. May that light, brighter than Bolognian Phosphorus, Preserve him from the Athanor, Empyremna, & Of the other World. Depurate him from the Taces and Scoria of this; Highly Rectify’d & Volatize His Ætheral Spirit, Bring it over the Helm of the Retort of this Globe, place it in a proper Recipient, Or Chrystalline Orb, Among the elect of the Flowers of Benjamin, Never to be Saturated, Till the General Resuscitation, Deflagration, Calcination, And Sublimation of all Things. * * * * * On Mr. Partridge, who died in May. What! kill a partridge in the month of May! Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh? * * * * * On Du Bois, Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel. Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath, Carte and tierce were his life, and a carte was his death. * * * * * On Mr. Nightingale, Architect. As the birds were the first of the architect kind, And are still better builders than men, What wonders may spring from a Nightingale’s mind, When St. Paul’s was produced by a Wren. * * * * * On Mr. Churchill. Says Tom to Richard, “Churchill’s dead.” Says Richard, “Tom, you lie; Old Rancour the report has spread, But Genius cannot die.” * * * * * On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist, Who, several years before his death, lost one of his nether limbs. Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve, Though his pickle was true Attic salt; One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve, Though his wit was known never to halt. A most precious limb and a rare precious pate, With one limb taken off for wise ends; Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait, Never failed to take off his best friends: Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice, Was his practice for pastime or pelf; For which ’twere no wonder, if both should rejoice At the day when he took off himself. * * * * * On James Straw, an Attorney.