Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee,
While thou enjoy'st along with it
That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,
Or counterfeit to mortal sense,
The heaven-infusèd sleep of Innocence!
IV.
[EPITAPH ON A DOG.]
Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,