Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove.
For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live,
(Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive)
Heart broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest,
I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast;
That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead;
This life resign'd without one parting sigh,