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the violence with which they are torn from the poem that first contained them. We may, however, observe some defects. There is a redundancy of words in the first couplet : it is superfluous to tell of him, who was sincere, true, and faithful, that he was in honour clear.

There seems to be an opposition intended in the fourth line, which is not very obvious : where is the wonder, that he who gained no title, should lose no friend?

It may be proper here to remark the absurdity of joining, in the same inscription, Latin and English, or verse and prose. If either language be preferable to the other, let that only be used; for no reason can be given why part of the information should be given in one tongue, and part in another, on a tomb, more than in any other place, on any


other occafion; and to tell all that can be conveniently told in verse, and then to call in the help of profe, has always the appearance of a very artless expedient, or of an attempt unaccomplished. Such an epitaph resembles the conversation of a foreigner, who tells part of his meaning by words, and conveys part by signs.


Intended for Mr. Rowe. In Westminster

Abbey. Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, And sacred, place by Dryden's awful duft: Beneath a rude and nameless stune he lies, To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes. Peace to thy gentle mn::de, and endless rest! Bleft in thy genius, in thy love too bieft! One grateful woman to thy fame supplies What a whole thankless land to his denies,

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9. Of this inscription the chief fault is, that it belongs less to Rowe, for whom it was written, than to Dryden, who was buried near him; and indeed gives very little information concerning either.

To wish, Peace to thy shade, is too mythological to be admitted into a chriftian temple: the ancient worship has infected almost all our other compositions, and might therefore be contented to fpare our epitaphs. Let fiction, at least, tease with life, and let us be ferious over the grave.


On Mrs. CORBET, who died of a Cancer

in her Brcaft.

Mere' rests' a woman, good without pretence, Biest with plain reason, and with sober sense : No conquefis ile, but o'er herself defir'd; No arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd.


Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinc'd that Virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so compos’d a mind,
So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet fo refin'!,
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures try'!,
The faint sustain'd, but the woman dy'd.

I have always considered this as the most valuable of all Pope's epitaplis; the subject of it is a character not difcriminated by any shining or eminent peculiarities; yet that which really makes, though not the splendor, the felicity of life, and that which erery wise man will choose for his final and laiting companion in the languor of age, in the quiet of privacy, when he departs weary and disgusted from the oftentatious, the volatile, and the vain. Of such a character, which the dull overlook, and the gay despise, it was fit that the value 1hould be made known, and the dignity Z 2



P established. Domestic virtue, as it is exerted without great occasions, or conspicuous consequences, in an even unnoted tenor, required the genius of Pope to display it in such a manner as might attract regard, and enforce reverence. Who can forbear to lament that this amiable woman has no name in the verses?

If the particular lines of this inscription be examined, it will appear less faulty than the rest. There is scarce one line taken from common places, unless it be that in which only Virtue is said to be our own. I once heard a Lady of great beauty and elegance object to the fourth line, that it contained an unnatural and incredible panegyrick. Of this let the Ladies judge.

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