[Horatio.]

Might I from all Mankind select The Friend, I would Horatio take. What gentler Mind could I expect? What nobler Conquest could I make?

Was he not One who, suffering all Yet kept his rising Anger down; Nor felt his Spirits rise or fall, As Fortune pleas’d to smile or frown?

He was no Pipe on which she play’d, As her capricious Hand inclin’d; But that sweet Music that he made Rose from his own harmonious Mind.

Aspiring, yet he never gave Himself to watch a Patron’s Will; Tender, but yet no Beauty’s Slave, Nor Victim to coquettish Skill.

Humble, and with high Talents born; Prepar’d alternate Fates to try; A Roman holding Death in Scorn; A Chieftain learning how to die.

“Something too much of this!” Yet, then How shall I thoughts like mine explain? How inexpert a Maiden’s pen, Since more than this I write in vain!

“But can the Friend of Denmark’s Prince Such fond and strange Emotions give; Whose Death or happen’d Ages since, Or who was never known to live?”

Yes, Souls alike in Times appear Far distant, minds of mould divine: The Friend whom Hamlet priz’d so dear, [Horatio—is a friend of mine.]