In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome. Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was every thing by starts, and nothing long; But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was Chymist, fidler, statesman, and buffoon: Then all for women, painting, rhiming, drinking; Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, In something new to wish, or to enjoy! Railing, and praising were his usual themes, And both, to shew his judgment, in extremes; So over violent, or over civil, That every man with him was God, or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late, He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laught himself from court, then sought relief, By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief. Thus wicked, but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left. It is allowed by the severest enemies of this nobleman, that he had a great share of vivacity, and quickness of parts, which were particularly turned to ridicule; but while he has been celebrated as a wit, all men are silent as to other virtues, for it is no where recorded, that he ever performed one generous disinterested action in his whole life; he relieved no distressed merit; he never shared the blessing of the widow and fatherless, and as he lived a profligate, he died in misery, a by-word and a jest, unpitied and unmourned. He died April 16, 1687, Mr. Wood says, at his house in Yorkshire, but Mr. Pope informs us, that he died at an inn in that county, in very mean circumstances. In his Epistle to lord Bathurst, he draws the following affecting picture of this man, who had possessed an estate of near 50,000 l. per annum, expiring, In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed, Where tawdry yellow, strove with dirty red, Great Villiers lies--alas! how chang'd from him That life of pleasure, and that foul of whim! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury[3] and love; Or just as gay in council, in a ring Of mimick'd statesmen and their merry king. No wit to flatter left of all his store! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more; There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. His grace's fate, sage Cutler could foresee, And well (he thought) advised him, 'live like me.' As well, his grace replied, 'like you, Sir John! That I can do, when all I have is gone:' Besides the celebrated Comedy of the Rehearsal, the duke wrote the following pieces; 1. An Epitaph on Thomas, Lord Fairfax, which has been often reprinted.