Alas! what dark benighting Clouds or shade Of Gloomy Fate has this Invasion made On the bright Confines of far shining day, And there Eclips’d the light refulgent Ray Of Sacred Honour, and transplendent Worth, Which Wisdom still from thence was beaming forth? But can it be that he’s so quickly gone, Rapt from the Earth so soon the Muses Son, Who from the evening World such Lawrels won, As with Eternal Green must wreath his brow, Till Time shall be no more, and Fate shall bow? Fame cannot be unjust to him she bore, And with him on her Silver wings did soare Higher than Pegasus durst ever rise, His Name engraving in the starry skies. Great Rochester, Minerva’s darling wit, Inspired by her, the famous Heroe writ Such Mysteries as puzzle’d [sic] dull Mankind The meaning of those deep Profounds to find: And having long paus’d on the Mystick Theam, Like the Magicians upon Pharoah’s dream, They did confess that they had sought in vain, Till the renowned Author did explain The weighty Syllogisms. For none could bring More loyal attestations for their King. Truely Heroick, more than can be told; Indu’d with vertues far exceeding gold, Or all the precious Oriental Jems The bounding Ocean holds, that India hems.