ABSTRACT
Thus, of his dear Euridice depriv’d, In Numbers soft the faithful Orpheus griev’d, Thus charm’d the World, while he his Pains reliev’d. To hear his Lyre the Beasts and Forests strove; But yours alone can Men, and Angels move, Can teach those how to write, these how to love. You only cou’d deserve so good a Friend, And to be thus lamented by your Pen, Was only due to th’wittyest, best of Men. His Soul to Heav’n he willingly resign’d,
But kindly left within your Matchless Mind A double Portion of his Wit behind. Equal to this is the Return you give, Lofty as Clouds, which did his Soul receive; His well-sung Name does in your Poem live.
