Speak and tread softly Passengers, and none

With an unhallowed touch pollute this stone

Let sweet-strained Cowley in death's sleep ne're stir

But rest, rest ever in his sepulchre.

BURLESQ;

Here lies, reduc'd to ashes and cinder,

not Sr Paul, but Sr Abraham Pindar.

It is not fierce Horatio Vere,

but Horatio Cowley buried here.

Nor is this Polydore Virgil's room,

but Cantabrigian Virgil's tomb.

The pleasant'st child e're England bred

The bravest youth e're Cambridge fed

The dearest man e're wore a head.

Whilst that thy ballads up & down do flutter

and the town gallants of thy town muse mutter

Possesse this church, though thou couldst not ye Savoy

and in her soft lap let Melpomene have thee.

Let no Court storm nor tough-lung'd zealot blow

thy neatly angled atomes to and fro

And sleep in beggar's Limbo, by dull Chaucer,

under the whim wham urn as broad as sawcer

Whilst yt thy name doth smell as sweet as May's

and all ye table talk is of thy Thais

thy miscellany and thy Davideis.

Rot away here and let the vault endure thee

let the religion of the house secure thee

and let the watching muses here immure thee.

Avaunt all ye that look profane and vile

Stand off, stand off, a hundred thousand mile

Nor with your thumbs this monument defile.

Let sugar-candy Cowley sleep in's grotte

let not ye people wake him, let them not

nor steal away the surgeons gally pot.

Whilst on wing'd Pegasus thou [Phœbus' Son]

through air and earth and sea & all do ride

Whilst by Orinda's pipe thy praise is blown

And thou in fairy land art deified;

Whilst thou dost soar aloft leave coyrs behind

to be interrd in antient monast'ry

And to the chimeing rabble safely joyn'd

[To] Draiton, Spencer and old Jeoffery.

Whilst thou above wear'st a triumphant wreath

And we the Poets militant beneath

Anthems to thy immortal honor breath

[Fill] the dark chest which for Apollo's heir

Ecclesia Anglicana doth prepare

And let the vestal nunne's watch ever here.

Let Libitina's selfe think't no disgrace

To be the Angel Guardian of this place

That no rude hand this monument deface.

Here let seraphic Cowley rest his head

Here let him rest it in this earthy bed

Till we all rise with glory lawrelled.

Whilst through ye world thy golden verses passe

more golden than those of Pythagoras

And whilst [sweet lyri]st thy anointed name

is registred in the large rowle of Fame

Here rest secure and let this minster be

a Sanctuary in that sense to thee,

Let the nine muses bid farewell to sleep

ever to watch the grave thy corps doth keep.

New consecrated is the holy ground

no crime no guilt must here be found;

Let not the man of vices hither come

and with his breath profane this sacred tomb.

Let Cowley's dust lie quiet in its urne

till the last trump all things to ashes turn;

Let it its station keep and quiet lie

till the blest dawn of immortality.

So wisheth

And desires his wish may be

Sacred to posterity

He who erected this monument

To that incomparable person

GEORGE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

He departed this life in the

49 year of his age

And was buried in great state out of

the Duke of Buckingham's House

Many illustrious persons of all

degrees attending his funeral.

August 3d. 1667.