Heav'n by the same disease did both translate, As equal was their souls, so equal was their fate. Miss Killegrew was buried in the chancel of St. Baptist's chapel in the Savoy hospital, on the North side of which is a very neat monument of marble and free-stone fixed in the wall, with a Latin inscription, a translation of which into English is printed before her poems. The following verses of Miss Killegrew's were addressed to Mrs. Philips. Orinda (Albion, and her sex's grace) Ow'd not her glory to a beauteous face. It was her radiant soul that shone within, Which struck a lustre thro' her outward skin; That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye, Advanc'd her heighth, and sparkled in her eye. Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame. But high'r 'mongst the stars it fixt her name; What she did write, not only all allow'd, But evr'y laurel, to her laurel bow'd! Soon after her death, her Poems were published in a large thin quarto, to which Dryden's ode in praise of the author is prefixed. Footnote: 1. Ballard's Memoirs of Learned Ladies. * * * * * NAT. LEE. This eminent dramatic poet was the son of a clergyman of the church of England, and was educated at Westminster school under Dr. Busby. After he left this school, he was some time at Trinity College, Cambridge; whence returning to London, he went upon the stage as an actor. Very few particulars are preserved concerning Mr. Lee. He died before he was 34 years of age, and wrote eleven tragedies, all of which contain the divine enthusiasm of a poet, a noble fire and elevation, and the tender breathings of love, beyond many of his cotemporaries. He seems to have been born to write for the Ladies; none ever felt the passion of love more intimately, none ever knew to describe it more gracefully, and no poet ever moved the breasts of his audience with stronger palpitations, than Lee. The excellent Mr. Addison, whose opinion in a matter of this sort, is of the greatest weight, speaking of the genius of Lee, thus proceeds[1]. "Among our modern English poets, there is none who was better turned for tragedy than our author; if instead of favouring the impetuosity of his genius, he had restrained it, and kept it within proper bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully suited for tragedy; but frequently lost in such a cloud of words, that it is hard to see the beauty of them. There is an infinite fire in his works, but so involved in smoke, that it does not appear in half its lustre. He frequently succeeds in the passionate part of the tragedy; but more particularly where he slackens his efforts, and eases the stile of those epithets and metaphors in which he so much abounds."