but you, Sir, retain still the perfect measure of true Honour, you understand the joys and comforts of life and blest retreat; you value Courts tho you do not always shine there, you dare be brave, liberal, and honest tho you do not always behold the Illustrious Pattern of all Glorious Vertue in your King, and absent from the lavish City. You are pleased and contented with the favour of your Monarch, tho you have no need of his Bounty, dare serve him with your Life and Fortune, and can find your reward in your own Vertue and Merit; this I dare avow to all the World is your Character in short, for which your lasting Name shall live, when the turbulent, busie hot-brain’d disturbers of their own tranquillity and the Kingdoms Peace, shall live in fear, die in Shame and their memory rot in the forgotten Grave, or stand to after Ages Branded and Reproached, while we can never enough Celebrate that Glorious one of yours; nor knew we where to fix it to render it Durable to all Eternity so well as to lasting Verse, that out-wears Time and Marble. If anything within can contribute to the diversion of your Hours of least concern, ‘twill be sufficient recompence to all who beg your Patronage here, especially Sir, Your obliged and most humble Servant, A. BEHN. MISCELLANY, 1685. _On the Death of the late Earl of_ Rochester, _by Mrs._ A. B. Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more. Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light, And ne’re shall rise from Deaths eternal Night, So rich a Prize the _Stygian_ Gods ne’re bore, Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac’d their Shore. He was but lent this duller World t’ improve In all the charms of Poetry, and Love; Both were his gift, which freely he bestow’d, And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd. Scorning the little Vanity of Fame, Spight of himself attain’d a Glorious name. But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride, The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide, As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright, As suffering no vicissitudes of Night. Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more.