One line speaks purelier thee, than my best strain.
Those mysteries (once like the spiteful mould,
Which bars the greedy Spaniard from his gold)
Thou dost unfold in every friendly page,
10Kind to the present, and succeeding age.
That hand, whose curious art prolongs the date
Of frail mortality, and baffles Fate
With brass and steel, can surely potent be,
To rear a lasting monument for thee:
For my part I prefer (to guard the dead)