When poets are by too much force betray'd.
Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime,
Still show'd a quickness; and maturing time 20
But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme.
Once more, hail! and farewell, farewell, thou young,
But, ah! too short, Marcellus of our tongue!
Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 33: 'Mr Oldham:' John Oldham, the satirist, died of the
small-pox in his 30th year, 1683.]

* * * * *



II.

TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY MRS ANNE
KILLIGREW,[34] EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING.
AN ODE. 1685.


I.

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,