Here lies, reduc'd to ashes and cinder,
not S'r Paul, but S'r Abraham Pindar.
It is not fierce Horatio Vere,
but Horatio Cowley buried here.
Nor is this Polydore Virgil's room,
but Cantabrigian Virgil's tomb.
The pleasant'st child e're England bred
The bravest youth e're Cambridge fed
The dearest man e're wore a head.
Whilst that thy ballads up & down do flutter
and the town gallants of thy town muse mutter
Possesse this church, though thou couldst not y'e Savoy
and in her soft lap let Melpomene have thee.
Let no Court storm nor tough-lung'd zealot blow
thy neatly angled atomes to and fro
And sleep in beggar's Limbo, by dull Chaucer,
under the whim wham urn as broad as sawcer
Whilst y't thy name doth smell as sweet as May's
and all y'e table talk is of thy Thais
thy miscellany and thy Davideis.
Rot away here and let the vault endure thee
let the religion of the house secure thee
and let the watching muses here immure thee.
Avaunt all ye that look profane and vile
Stand off, stand off, a hundred thousand mile
Nor with your thumbs this monument defile.
Let sugar-candy Cowley sleep in's grotte
let not y'e people wake him, let them not
nor steal away the surgeons gally pot.
Whilst on wing'd Pegasus thou [Phoebus' Son]
through air and earth and sea & all do ride
Whilst by Orinda's pipe thy praise is blown
And thou in fairy land art deified;
Whilst thou dost soar aloft leave coyrs behind
to be interrd in antient monast'ry
And to the chimeing rabble safely joyn'd
[To] Draiton, Spencer and old Jeoffery.
Whilst thou above wear'st a triumphant wreath
And we the Poets militant beneath
Anthems to thy immortal honor breath
[Fill] the dark chest which for Apollo's heir
Ecclesia Anglicana doth prepare
And let the vestal nunne's watch ever here.
Let Libitina's selfe think't no disgrace
To be the Angel Guardian of this place
That no rude hand this monument deface.
Here let seraphic Cowley rest his head
Here let him rest it in this earthy bed
Till we all rise with glory lawrelled.
Whilst through y'e world thy golden verses passe
more golden than those of Pythagoras
And whilst [sweet lyri]st thy anointed name
is registred in the large rowle of Fame
Here rest secure and let this minster be
a Sanctuary in that sense to thee,
Let the nine muses bid farewell to sleep
ever to watch the grave thy corps doth keep.
New consecrated is the holy ground
no crime no guilt must here be found;
Let not the man of vices hither come
and with his breath profane this sacred tomb.
Let Cowley's dust lie quiet in its urne
till the last trump all things to ashes turn;
Let it its station keep and quiet lie
till the blest dawn of immortality.
So wisheth
And desires his wish may be
Sacred to posterity
He who erected this monument
To that incomparable person