[332] 'Cleone:' a tragedy by Robert Dodsley. [333] 'Whitehead:' Whitehead dedicated his 'School for Lovers' to the memory of Fontenelle. [334] 'Browne:' 'The Cure of Saul,' a sacred ode by Dr Browne, was set to music. [335] 'Ogilvie:' John Ogilvie, A.M., was the author of 'Providence,' an allegorical poem. [336] 'Armstrong:' Dr John Armstrong, author of that beautiful poem, 'The Art of Preserving Health,' also of one entitled 'Day,' in which he reflected on Churchill, who had been his friend. DEDICATION To Churchill's Sermons. The manuscript of this unfinished poem was found among the few papers Churchill left behind him. Health to great Glo'ster!--from a man unknown, Who holds thy health as dearly as his own, Accept this greeting--nor let modest fear Call up one maiden blush--I mean not here To wound with flattery; 'tis a villain's art, And suits not with the frankness of my heart. Truth best becomes an orthodox divine, And, spite of Hell, that character is mine: To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear; But truth, my lord, is panegyric here. 10 Health to great Glo'ster!--nor, through love of ease, Which all priests love, let this address displease. I ask no favour, not one _note_ I crave, And when this busy brain rests in the grave, (For till that time it never can have rest) I will not trouble you with one bequest. Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done, More near in blood, a nephew or a son, In that dread hour executor I'll leave, For I, alas! have many to receive; 20 To give, but little.--To great Glo'ster health! Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth Here take a false alarm--in purse though poor, In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure The mention of a bribe--thy pocket's free: I, though a dedicator, scorn a fee. Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share; I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir. Think not,--a thought unworthy thy great soul, Which pomps of this world never could control, 30 Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine,-- Think not that pomp and power can work on mine. 'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great, 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state, 'Tis not thy title, Doctor though thou art, 'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart. State is a farce; names are but empty things, Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings, Titles are oft misplaced; mitres, which shine So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, 40 Unless set off by virtue; who deceives Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves Enhances guilt, commits a double sin; So fair without, and yet so foul within. 'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien, Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene, Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye, Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie, Which can from sixty to sixteen impart The force of Love, and point his blunted dart; 50