"Thus, madam, your ladyship has every way the justest titles to the patronage of this book; the publication of which, under the auspicious influence of your name, is the best (I had almost said the only) means I have left, of testifying to the world, my desire to pay the last honours to its dear author, your ladyship having generously prevented my intended performance of the duty I owe to his ashes, by erecting a fair monument over them, and gracing it with an inscription which may perpetuate both the marble and his memory. "Your generosity, which was too large to be confined either to his life or person, has also extended itself to his posterity, on whom your ladyship has been pleased to entail your favours, which must, with all gratitude, be acknowledged as the most valuable part of their inheritance, both by them, and your ladyship's most obliged, and most humble servant, FR. PURCELL." ] ON THE DEATH OF MR PURCELL. SET TO MUSIC BY DR BLOW. Mark how the lark and linnet sing, With rival notes They strain their warbling throats, To welcome in the spring. But in the close of night, When Philomel begins her heavenly lay, They cease their mutual spite, Drink in her music with delight, And, listening, silently obey. II. So ceased the rival crew when Purcell came; They sung no more, or only sung his fame. Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man: The godlike man, Alas! too soon retired, As he too late began. We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore; Had he been there, Their sovereign's fear Had sent him back before. The power of harmony too well they knew: He long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere, And left no hell below. III. The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high, Let down the scale of music from the sky; They handed him along, And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung. Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice, Lament his lot, but at your own rejoice: Now live secure, and linger out your days; The gods are pleased alone with Purcell's lays, Nor know to mend their choice. _EPITAPH_ ON THE LADY WHITMORE. _This was perhaps Frances, daughter of Sir William Brooke, Knight of the Bath, and wife to Sir Thomas Whitmore, Knight-Baronet_. Fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone, A wife, a mistress, and a friend, in one; Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost, Here sadly summing, what he had, and lost. Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join, Come first and offer at her sacred shrine; Pray but for half the virtues of this wife, Compound for all the rest, with longer life; And wish your vows, like hers, may be returned, So loved when living, and, when dead, so mourned. EPITAPH ON MRS MARGARET PASTON, OF BURNINGHAM, IN NORFOLK.