SHOULD I attempt an elogy, or frame A paper-structure to secure thy name, The lightning of one censure, one stern frown Might quickly hazard that, and thy renown. But this thy book prevents that fruitless pain. One line speaks purelier thee, than my best strain. Those mysteries (once like the spiteful mould, Which bars the greedy Spaniard from his gold) Thou dost unfold in every friendly page, Kind to the present, and succeeding age. That hand, whose curious art prolongs the date Of frail mortality, and baffles Fate With brass and steel, can surely potent be, To rear a lasting monument for thee: For my part I prefer (to guard the dead) A copper-plate beyond a sheet of lead. So long as brass, so long as books endure, So long as neat-wrought pieces, thou'rt secure. A [@3Faithorne sculpsit@1] is a charm can save From dull oblivion, and a gaping grave. |