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HAT needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones

The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques shouli be hid
Under a Stary-pointing Pyramid ?
Dear Son of memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'ft thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Haft built thy seif a live-long Monument.
For whilst, to th' fame of low-endeavouring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impreffion took,
Then thou our fancy of it felf bereaving,
Doft make us Marble with too much conceiving ;
And so Sepulcher'd in such Pomp doft lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would with to die.



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On the Univerhty Carrier, who ficken'd in

the time of his vacancy, being forbiil to go to London, by reason of the Plague,

CERE lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt, HE

And here, alas ! hath laid him in the dirt; Or elle the ways being foul, twenty to one He's here stuck in a sough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter, that if; truth were known, Death was half glad when he had got him down ; For he had any time these ten years full, Dodg'd with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull. And surely death could never have prevailid, Had not his weekly course of carriage failid: But lately finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey's end was come, And that he had ta'en up his lateft Inn, In the kind Office of a Chamberlain Shew'd him his room where he must lodge that night, Pullid off his Boots, and took away the light. If any ask for him, it shall be faid, Hobson has fupt, and's newly gone to bed.

Another on the same.


ER E lieth one, who did most truly prove

That he could never die while he could move : So hung his deftiny, never to rot While he might till jogg on and keep his trot, Made of fphear-metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay, Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) moţion number'd out his time:


And like an Engine mov'd with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceas'd, he ended straight.
Reit, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath ;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm,
Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Meerly to drive the time away, he ficken'd,
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickend:
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd,
If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make fix bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right;
He dy'd for heaviness that his Cart went light:
His leisure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burdensom,
That even to his last breath (there be that say't)
As he were prest to death, he cry'd more weight:

had his doings lafted as they were,
He had been an immortal Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon, he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the Seas,
Yet (ftrange to think) his wain was his increase :
His letters are deliver'd all and gone,
Only remains this Superscription.

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