“He’d briskly run; or, tir’d, would slowly creep.
“One eve I miss’d him on th’ accustom’d way:
“Along the park, and near his fav’rite tree,
“Another came—I sought him at the play,
“Nor in the pit, box, nor gallery, was he
“The next in dreary hearse, with sad array,
“Slow to th’ uncypress’d church-yard he was borne,
“Approach and read (if thou hast time) the lay,
“Grav’d on the stone, that no proud lies adorn.”
EPITAPH.