Читать книгу Irish Wit and Humor - Unknown - Страница 44

A paper Book is sent by Boyle,

Too neatly gilt for me to soil:

Delany sends a Silver Standish,

When I no more a pen can brandish.

Let both around my tomb be placed,

As trophies of a muse deceas'd:

And let the friendly lines they writ,

In praise of long departed wit,

Be graved on either side in columns,

More to my praise than all my volumes;

To burst with envy, spite, and rage,

The Vandals of the present age.