Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair shrine we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden’s awful dust.
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall gain inquiring eyes:
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest,
Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest;
One grateful woman to thy fame supplied
What a whole thankless land to his denied.
_On Maids._
Most maids resemble Eve now in their lives,
Who are no sooner women, but they’re wives.
_On Giles Jacob, the Poet._ BY DR. SEWELL.
Parent of dulness! genuine son of night!
Total eclipse! without one ray of light:
Born when dull midnight bells for funerals chime,
Just at the closing of the bellman’s rhyme.