ON
THE EARL OF DORSETS DEATH.
Let no prophane, ignoble foot tread here,
This hallowed piece of earth, Dorset lyes there:
A small poor relique of a noble spirit,
Free as the air, and ample as his merit:
A soul refin’d, no proud forgetting lord,
But mindful of mean names, and of his word:
Who lov’d men for his honour, not his ends,
And had the noblest way of getting friends
By loving first, and yet who knew the court,