III.
AD ANTIQUARIUM.
My gentle Aubrey, who in everything
Hadst of thy city’s youth so lovely lust,
Yet never lineal to her towers august
Thy spirit could fix, or perfectly upbring,
Sleep, sleep! I ope, not unremembering,
Thy comely manuscript, and, interthrust,
Find delicate hueless leaves more sad than dust,
Two centuries unkissed of any spring.