English poem
An Epigram, on Refusing Bishop Atterbury a Public Funeral
by Anonymous
His foes, when dead great Atterbury lay, Shrunk at his name, and trembled at his clay: Ten thousand dangers to their eyes appear, Great as their guilt, and certain as their fear; T'insult a deathless corse, alas! is vain: Well for themselves, and well employ'd their pain, Could they secure him—not to rise again.
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