Of kindred drew, but o'er her father's brow
50(Telling the world he mourn'd without an how)
He drew a veil spake sorrow in excess,
So with a —— —— must my muse express
Your sacred worth, concluding it to be
Too high for any bard, if not, for me.
Beside, the world of late has nicknam'd praise,
Calls it an elbow-claw and scraping bays.
Then pardon, sir, this dearth, and judge the why
Is your worth soar'd above Parnasse's eye.