Beyond our loftiest flights, that is, like thee;
Or t' have had too much merit is not safe;
For such excesses find no epitaph.
At common graves, we have poetic eyes,
Can melt themselves in easy elegies;
Each quill can drop his tributary verse,
And pin it, with the hatchments, to the hearse:
But at thine, poem or inscription
10(Rich soul of wit and language!) we have none;
Indeed a silence does that tomb befit,