Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,
But shade those laurels which descend to you;
And take, for tribute, what these lines express:
You merit more, nor could my love do less.

_Epistle to_ MR CONGREVE]

I was then, and have been ever since, most sensibly touched with that
expression; and the more so, because I could not find in myself the
means of satisfying the passion which I felt in me, to do something
answerable to an injunction laid upon me in so pathetic and so
amicable a manner.

You, my Lord, have furnished me with ample means of acquitting myself,
both of my duty and obligation to my departed friend. What kinder
office lies in me to do to these, his most valuable and imperishable
remains, than to commit them to the protection, and lodge them under
the roof, of a patron, whose hospitality has extended itself even to
his dust?

If I would permit myself to run on in the way which so fairly opens
itself before me, I should tire your Grace with reiterated praises and
acknowledgments; and I might possibly (notwithstanding my pretended
right so to do) give some handle to such, who are inclinable to
censure, to tax me of affectation and officiousness, in thanking you,
more than comes to my share, for doing a thing, which is, in truth, of
a public consideration, as it is doing an honour to your country. For
so unquestionably it is, to do honour to him, who was an honour to it.

I have but one thing to say, either to obviate or to answer such