79
Nothing speaks our mind so well
As to speak Nothing. Come then, tell
Thy Mind in Tears, whoe'er thou be
That ow'st a name to Misery:
None can fluency deny
To Tears, the Language of the Eye.
Now first published from an MS. in the British Museum.
80
EPITAPH OF THE PRESENT YEAR ON THE
MONUMENT OF THOMAS FULLER
A Lutheran stout, I hold for Goose-and-Gaundry
Both the Pope's Limbo and his fiery Laundry:
No wit e'er saw I in Original Sin,
And no Sin find I in Original Wit;
But if I'm all in the wrong, and, Grin for Grin,
Scorch'd Souls must pay for each too lucky hit,—
Oh, Fuller! much I fear, so vast thy debt,
Thou art not out of Purgatory yet;
Tho' one, eight, three and three this year is reckon'd,
And thou, I think, didst die sub Charles the Second.
Nov. 28, 1833.
Now first published from an MS.