said to be written on a glass with the earl of Chesterfield's diamond-pencil.

Accept a miracle, instead of wit; See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ.

The beauty of this epigram is more easily seen than described; and it is difficult to determine, whether it does more honour to the poet who wrote it, or to the nobleman for whom the compliment is designed.—The following epigram of Mr Prior is written in the same taste, being a fine encomium on the performance of an excellent painter.

On a Flower, painted by Varelst.

When fam'd Varelst this little wonder drew, Flora vouchsafe'd the growing work to view:

Finding Finding the painter's science at a stand, The Goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand, And, finishing the piece, she smiling said, Behold one work of mine which ne'er shall fade.

Another compliment of this delicate kind he has made Mr Howard in the following epigram.

**Venus Mistaken.**

When Chloe's picture was to Venus shown; Surpriz'd, the Goddess took it for her own. And what, said she, does this bold painter mean? When was I bathing thus, and naked seen? Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd his mother's pride: And who's blind now, mamma? the urchin cry'd. 'Tis Chloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast: Friend Howard's genius fancy'd all the rest.

Most of Mr Prior's epigrams are of this delicate cast, and have the thought, like those of Catallus, diffused through the whole. Of this kind is his address

**To Chloe Weeping.**

See, whilst thou weep'lt, fair Chloe, see The world in sympathy with thee. The cheerful birds no longer sing, Each drops his head, and hangs his wing. The clouds have bent their bosom lower, And shed their sorrow in a shower. The brooks beyond their limits flow, And louder murmurs speak their woe: The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares; They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears. Fantastical nymph! that grief should move Thy heart obdurate against love. Strange tears! whose pow'r can soften all, But that dear breast on which they fall.

The epigram written on the leaves of a fan by Dr. Atterbury, late bishop of Rochester, contains a pretty thought, expressed with ease and conciseness, and closed in a beautiful manner.

**On a Fan.**

Flavia the least and slightest toy Can with restless art employ. This fan in meaner hands would prove An engine of small force in love; Yet she, with graceful air and mien, Not to be told or safely seen, Directs its wanton motion so, That it wounds more than Cupid's bow, Gives coolness to the matchless dame, To ev'ry other breast a flame.

We shall now select some epigrams of the biting and satirical kind, and such as turn upon the pun or equivocation, as the French call it; in which fort the point is more conspicuous than in those of the former character.

The following distich is an admirable epigram, having all the necessary qualities of one, especially point and brevity.

**On a Company of bad Dancers to good Music.**

How ill the motion with the music suits! So Orpheus fiddled, and so danc'd the brutes.

This brings to mind another epigram upon a bad fiddler, which we shall venture to insert merely for the humour of it, and not for any real excellence it contains.

**To a Bad Fiddler.**

Old Orpheus play'd so well, he mov'd Old Nick; But thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddle-stick.

One of Martial's epigrams, wherein he agreeably rallies the foolish vanity of a man who hired people to make verses for him, and published them as his own, has been thus translated into English:

Paul so fond of the name of a poet is grown, With gold he buys verses, and calls them his own. Go on, master Paul, nor mind what the world says, They are surely his own for which a man pays.

Some bad writer having taken the liberty to censure Mr Prior, the poet very wittily lashed his impertinence in this epigram:

While faster than his costive brain indites, Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes, His case appears to me like honest Teague's, When he was run away with by his legs. Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command; Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand: Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink; So he may cease to write, and learn to think.

Mr Wesley has given us a pretty epigram, alluding to a well-known text of scripture, on the setting up a monument in Westminster Abbey, to the memory of the ingenious Mr Butler, author of Hudibras.

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him when starv'd to death, and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental butt! The poet's fate is here in emblem shown; He ask'd for Bread, and he receiv'd a Stone.

We shall close this section with an epigram written on the well-known story of Apollo and Daphne, by Mr Smart.

When Phoebus was am'rous and long'd to be rude, Miss Daphne cry'd Pish! and ran twist to the wood; And rather than do such a naughty affair, She became a fine laurel to deck the god's hair. The nymph was, no doubt, of a cold constitution; For, sure, to turn tree was an odd resolution! Yet in this she behav'd like a true modern spouse, For she fled from his arms to distinguish his brows.

**Sect. XI. Of the Epitaph.**

102. These compositions generally contain some eulogium of the virtues and good qualities of the deceased, and have a turn of seriousness and gravity adapted to the nature of the subject. Their elegance consists in a nervous and expressive brevity; and sometimes they are closed with an epigrammatic point. In these compositions, no mere epithet (properly so called) should be admitted; for here illustration would impair the strength, and render the sentiment too diffuse and languid. Words that are synonymous are also to be rejected. Though the true characteristic of the epitaph is seriousness and gravity, yet we may find many that are jocose and ludicrous; some likewise have true metre and rhyme; while others are between prose and verse, without any certain measure, though the words are truly poetical; and the beauty of this last sort is generally heightened by an apt and judicious antithesis. We shall give examples of each.

The following epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney's sister, the countess of Pembroke, said to be written by the famous Ben Jonson, is remarkable for the noble thought with which it concludes.

**On Mary countess dowager of Pembroke.**

Underneath this noble marble hearse, Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: Death, ere thou hast kill'd another Fair, and learn'd, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Take another epitaph of Ben Johnson's, on a beautiful and virtuous lady, which has been deservedly admired by very good judges.

Underneath this stone doth lie As much virtue as could die; Which when alive did vigour give To as much beauty as could live.

Mr Pope has drawn the character of Mr Gay, in an epitaph now to be seen on his monument in Westminster-abbey, which he has closed with a most beautiful turn, and is looked upon as a master-piece of its kind, as indeed are most of the productions of that surprising genius.

**On Mr Gay.**

Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit, a man; simplicity, a child: With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage, Form'd to delight at once, and lash the age: Above temptation in a low estate, And uncorrupted ev'n among the great: A safe companion, and an easy friend, Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in thy end. There are thy honours! not that here thy dust Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust; But that the worthy and the good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms—Here lies Gay.

Amongst the epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous cast, we know of none prettier than that which is said to have been written by Mr Prior on himself, wherein he is pleasantly satirical upon the folly of those who value themselves on account of the long series of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree.

Nobles and heralds, by your leave, Here lies the bones of Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve: Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher.

The following epitaph on a miser contains a good caution and an agreeable raillery.

Reader, beware immoderate love of self: Here lies the worst of thieves, who rob'd himself.

But Dr Swift's epitaph on the same subject is a masterpiece of the kind.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demer, the wealthy and the wife. His heirs, that he might safely rest, Have put his carcass in a chest: The very chest, in which, they say, His other Self, his money, lay. And if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe that four in five Will think his better half alive.

We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry epitaph on an old fiddler, who was remarkable (we may suppose) for beating time to his own music.

**On Stephen the Fiddler.**

Stephen and time are now both even; Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.

We are come now to that sort of epitaph which rejects rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be preserved in a clear and direct opposition. We cannot give a better example of this sort of epitaph, than that on the tomb of Mr Pultney in the cloisters of Westminster-abbey.

**Reader,**

If thou art a Briton, Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret: Here lies the Remains of Daniel Pulteney, The kindest Relation, the truest Friend, The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man. He exercised Virtues in this Age, Sufficient to have distinguished him even in the best. Sagacious by Nature, Industrious by Habit, Inquisitive with Art; He gain'd a complete Knowledge of the State of Britain, Foreign and domestic; In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience, In him the early acquisition of undissipated Youth. He serv'd the Court several Years: Abroad, in the auspicious Reign of Queen Anne; At home, in the reign of that excellent prince K. George I. He served his Country always, At Court independent, In the Senate unbias'd, At every Age, and in every Station: This was the bent of his generous Soul, This the business of his laborious Life. Public Men, and Public Things, He judged by one constant Standard, The true Interest of Britain: He made no other Distinction of Party, He abhorred all other. Gentle, humane, disinterested, beneficent, He created no Enemies on his own Account: Firm, determin'd, inflexible, He feared none he could create in the Cause of Britain.

Reader, In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own: For know, The Loss of so much private Virtue Is a public Calamity.

That poignant satire, as well as extravagant praise, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following epitaph written by Dr Arbuthnot on Fran- cis Chartres; which is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation.

Here continueth to rot The Body of FRANCIS CHARTRES, Who with an Inflexible Constancy, And Inimitable Uniformity of Life, Persisted, In spite of Age and Infirmities, In the Practice of Every Human Vice, Excepting Prodigality and Hypocrisy: His insatiable Avarice exempted him from the first, His matchless Impudence from the second. Nor was he more singular In the undeviating Pravity of his Manners, Than successful In Accumulating Wealth: For, without Trade or Profession, Without Trust of Public Money, And without Bribe-worthy Service, He acquired, or more properly created, A Ministerial Estate. He was the only Person of his Time Who could cheat without the Mask of Honesty, Retain his Primeval Meanness When possessed of Ten Thousand a-year; And having daily deserved the Gibbet for what he did, Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not do. Oh indignant reader! Think not his Life useless to Mankind;