165
A POET's EPITAPH.
Art thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business train'd and bred,
—First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.
A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh;
Go, carry to some other place
The hardness of thy coward eye,
The falshood of thy sallow face.
Art thou a man of purple cheer?
A rosy man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet Doctor, not too near:
This grave no cushion is for thee.
