 | Poems on various subjects |  |
223
EPITAPH ON A WICKED MAN.
Here lies what was a tool of Pow'r,
Physician spite of Skill,
Who, if he knew not how to cure,
He seldom fail'd to kill.
Physician spite of Skill,
Who, if he knew not how to cure,
He seldom fail'd to kill.
Ye honest men who wander here,
Think ye have lost a foe:
Ye virgins, ye have nought to fear,
Since Death has struck the blow.
Think ye have lost a foe:
Ye virgins, ye have nought to fear,
Since Death has struck the blow.
Mourn drunkards, panders, gamesters, mourn,
For you have lost the knave:
Ye bawds, with tears bedew this urn—
Your friend lies in the grave.
For you have lost the knave:
Ye bawds, with tears bedew this urn—
Your friend lies in the grave.
| Poems on various subjects | |