Than such who tell who lately died.
No sooner is the spirit flown
From its clay cage to lands unknown,
Than some rash hackney gets his name,
And through the town laments the same.
An honest burgess cannot die,
But they must weep in elegy:
Even when the virtuous soul is soaring
Through middle air, he hears it roaring.[[167]]
The poetry of these mortuary verses is usually as bad as the typography, and that is saying a great deal; yet now and then |1695.| one falls in with a quaint couplet or two—as, for example, in the piece: