(12)
That does remain alone
Alive in an Inscription
Remembred only on the Brass or Marble Stone.
'Tis all in vain what we for thee can do,
All our Roses and Perfumes
Will but officious folly shew,
And pious Nothings to such mighty Tombs.
All our Incence, Gums and Balm
Are but unnecessary duties here:
The Poets may their spices spare
Their costly Numbers and their tuneful feet:
That need not be inbalm'd, which of it self is sweet.
(2)
We know to praise thee is a dangerous proof
Of our Obedience and our Love:
For when the Sun and Fire meet,
Th' ones extinguish't quite;
And yet the other never is more bright.
So they that writ of Thee and joyn
Their feeble names With Thine,
Their weaker sparks with thy Illustrious light,
Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought,
And yet no Flame to thee from them be brought.
We know, blest Spirit, thy mighty name
Wants not Addition of another's Beam;
It's for our Pens too high and full of Theam.
The Muses are made great by thee, not thou by them.
Thy Fames eternal Lamp will live
And in thy Sacred Urn survive,
Without the food or Oyl, which we can give.
'Tis true; but yet our duty calls our Songs
Duty Commands our Tongues,
