To fortune's goods a foe profess'd,
And, hating wealth, by all caress'd
'Tis sure he's dead; for, lo! how small
A spot of earth is now his all!
O! wish that earth may lightly lay,
And ev'ry care be far away!
Bring flow'rs, the short-liv'd roses bring,
To life deceased fit offering!
And sweets around the poet strow,
Whilst yet with life his ashes glow.