'Tis said, for ev'ry common Grief br The Muses can afford Relief: br And, surely, on that heav'nly Train br A Boyle can never call in vain. br Then strait invoke the sacred Nine, br Nor impious slight their Gifts divine; br Dispel those Clouds, which damp your Fire; br Shew, Bath, like br br The Earl's Answer, br written extempore. br Nor Bath, nor Tunbridge, can my Lays inspire; br Nor radiant Beauty make me strike the Lyre: br Far from the busy Croud I sit, forlorn; br And sigh in secret, and in Silence mourn: br Nor can my Anguish ever find an End; br I weep a Father, and have lost a Friend. br br Reply to the foregoing Verses. br Why did I hope to make your Anguish less? br I try'd to cure, and I have caught, Distress. br Suppress your Sighs, dry up your Tears; 'tis Time: br Excess of Virtue may become a Crime. br You lost, you say, a Friend, and Father too; br But know, Mankind would lose a Friend in you.