Tho nothing else these lines can recommend,
They'll show I'm not asham'd to own my Friend:
Who e're upon his Ashes rudely tread,
Living I lov'd, and will revenge him dead;
Accept these grateful Exequies, dear Shade!
Those Rites to thy much injur'd Manes paid:
Thus dies the Wretch who dar'd blaspheme thy Name,
Thus o're thy Tomb I sacrifice his Fame.
Baser than—or that Traytrous Crew,
Who would the Work of Heaven itself undo;
Say, Monster! what foul Lust of gain possest,
What Fury seiz'd thy Sacrilegious breast?
That no less Wickedness cou'd thee content,
Than madly tearing up a Monument?
What Wolf begat thee? Manhood ne're pretend!
Not any Beast beside: the Dead would rend.
No Bookseller but H&wblank; e're contriv'd,
To plague an Author longer than he liv'd.
This thy Indictment is, the Proofs are clear,
And now thy Sentence, Wretch, prepare to hear.
In the same Road of Dullness still trot on,
Till to the end of those Vast Realms thou'rt gone.
Print ten times weaker, sillier Stuff than he,
That mauls us with the City Mercury.
Fleckno and Bunian call from Lethe Lake,
More Ballads and more Godly Books to make.
Nothing but these e're print, or what's as well,
If a good Copy; may it never sell.
Such weighty Prose as K&wblank; or N&wblank; indite,
Such humble Rymes as I or G&wblank;n write,
Or some dull Treason for the Jacobite.
Th' Impression seiz'd, e're thou of one dispose,
And when tis burnt just underneath thy Nose,
May'st thou Sev'n Years the crowded Street survay;
Thro Wooden-Ring-enchanted, twice a day.
This Pennace past, if this thou should'st out-live,
Perhaps on Due contrition, I'll forgive.

EPITAPH.
Here lies one who liv'd free from ill Nature and Pride,
He liv'd but too fast, and too quickly he dy'd.
He lasht all the Vintners, whom he knew but too well,
And the Ghost of Tom Saffold rejoyc'd when he fell.
Light lie the soft dust, untrod let it be,
As far from constraint, and as easy as he.