'Tis said, for ev'ry common Grief
The Muses can afford Relief:
And, surely, on that heav'nly Train
A Boyle can never call in vain.
Then strait invoke the sacred Nine,
Nor impious slight their Gifts divine;
Dispel those Clouds, which damp your Fire;
Shew, Bath, like
The Earl's Answer,
written extempore.
Nor Bath, nor Tunbridge, can my Lays inspire;
Nor radiant Beauty make me strike the Lyre:
Far from the busy Croud I sit, forlorn;
And sigh in secret, and in Silence mourn:
Nor can my Anguish ever find an End;
I weep a Father, and have lost a Friend.
Reply to the foregoing Verses.
Why did I hope to make your Anguish less?
I try'd to cure, and I have caught, Distress.
Suppress your Sighs, dry up your Tears; 'tis Time:
Excess of Virtue may become a Crime.
You lost, you say, a Friend, and Father too;
But know, Mankind would lose a Friend in you.
