 | Piety, and Poesy |  |
The Epitaph.
In this sacred Urn there lies,
Till the last Trump make it rise,
A Light that's wanting in the Skies.
Till the last Trump make it rise,
A Light that's wanting in the Skies.
A Corps inveloped with Stars,
Who, though a Stranger to the Wars,
Was mark'd with many hundred Scars.
Who, though a Stranger to the Wars,
Was mark'd with many hundred Scars.
Death (at once) spent all his store
Of Darts, which this fair Body bore,
Though fewer, had kill'd many more.
Of Darts, which this fair Body bore,
Though fewer, had kill'd many more.
For him our own salt Tears we quaff.
Whose Virtues shall preserve him safe
Beyond the power of Epitaph.
Whose Virtues shall preserve him safe
Beyond the power of Epitaph.
| Piety, and Poesy | |