The verses themselves, evidently of a date not long subsequent to the erection of the Cowley monument in Westminster Abbey, are written on the back of a damaged copy of Faithorne's engraved portrait of him. They comprise a not very correct transcript of the Latin inscription on the monument, a translation and paraphrase of the same, and what is styled a "burlesque," in which one of the chief features of the monument itself is ludicrously associated with the profession of Sir Charles Scarborough, Cowley's friend. The "Per Carolum Scarborough, Militem, Med. Doctorem," implies, it may be presumed, that Sir Charles was the author of the Latin epitaph, of which it has always been understood, and indeed it is so stated in the later biographies of the poet, that Cowley's close friend and literary executor Sprat, Bishop of Rochester, was the author. Scarborough published an elegy to Cowley's memory, of which I am informed there is no copy in the British Museum library; and being unable to refer to it in any other collection, I have no means of ascertaining whether this elegy discloses the fact of the authorship of the epitaph. This is not an unimportant point, since it will be recollected that Dr. Johnson expends a considerable amount of indignation upon the epitaph, not on account of its Latinity, but on account of what he considers as the false sentiments of which it is made the vehicle. The value of the manuscript depends of course upon the possibility of the chief item of its contents being unpublished. Whatever respect the writer may have entertained towards Cowley, he certainly seems inclined to be merry at the expense of Sir Charles Scarborough. The unwieldy urn which surmounts the monument, is variously designated as a "whimwham urn as broad as sawcer," and as "the surgeon's gally-pot." These are not very complimentary epithets, it is true; but if they ever met the courtly physician's eye he could afford to laugh with the laughers. Cowley's lack of success in his attempt to obtain the mastership of the Savoy is not forgotten; but the satirist speaks of the dead poet very goodhumouredly, and may be said to concur in opinion with those of his admirers who predicted for his writings an enduring immortality. But "sugar-candy Cowley," as the burlesquer terms him, is now obliged to be content with a few pages in the _Selections from British Poets_, where indeed he is entitled to a very eminent position; whilst "dull Chaucer," as he is irreverently called, with whom the writer quietly prays that Cowley may quietly "sleep in beggar's limbo," seems to live almost bodily amongst us; and his vivid pictures and naïve descriptions are so acceptable, that it may safely be predicted that an edition of the _Canterbury Tales_ will always be a more profitable venture for a publisher than a speculation in a new edition of the _Davideis_.