I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed. But I am richly cozened, and can see Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again. And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starved the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' the press. For thou hast drained invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain? Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy? Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit Their synod fast and pray against thy wit? But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- Thou dost but kill and circumvent in jest; And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow. Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair. Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease Withdrew betimes into the land of peace. So, nested in some hospitable shore, The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, Which I think such, if needless ink not soil So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; This or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee. True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and matched the past. PICTURE OF THE TOWN. Abominable face of things!--here's noise Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoarse, hellish notes Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats; With new fine worships, and the old cast team Of justices, vexed with the cough and phlegm. 'Midst these, the cross looks sad; and in the shire- Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, With brotherly rufts and beards, and a strange sight Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots. Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; or The beauteous churl was to be waited for, And, like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, You stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss. * * * * *