Epitaph

Interr'd within this little space The bird of wisdom lies; Learn hence, how vain is ev'ry grace, How fruitless to be wise.

Can mortal stop the arm of Death Who ne'er compassion knew? He Venus' lover robb'd of breath, He, Anna's darling slew.

Ah happy bird, to raise those sighs Which man could ne'er obtain! Ah happy bird, to cloud those eyes That fir'd each kneeling swain!

Thrice bless'd thy life, her joy, her bliss, Thrice bless'd thy happy doom; She gave thee many a melting kiss, She wept upon thy tomb.