Tho’ ev’ry man dies when he loses his breath,
Yet there ought to be some small decorum in death;
’Tis so rude for to step in a trice to your grave,
And not have the politeness to come take your leave;
For some are so brutish, such cormorants quite,
They don’t think it worth while for to bid us good night.
SONNET.
BY HOLCROFT.
Though pale and wan my cheeks appear,
Though dead to joy and hope I live,