Assist with mournful strains, assist, my Muse;
Don't at this time your wonted aid refuse.
Bewail his fate; poor Pun-sibi's no more;
In mournful accents now his death deplore.
In vain, alas! for him we hope relief;
His fate is certain, certain as our grief;
Nor sighs, nor tears can aught for him procure;
His warrant's sealed, his destiny is sure.
He died with great remorse for former crimes,
Begged Paean's pardon too for murdered rhymes.
No more his puns shall please the giddy crowd,
No more sham farces make fools laugh aloud.
But now in common dust his bones must lie;
What pity 'tis that such bright men should die!
He was a stranger to domestic strife.
His joys were centered in a handsome wife,
So good, virtuous, of so sweet a mind;
One of such parts, who in this age can find?
He knew the worth of such a mighty prize,
One who the sland'rous tongues of fame defies,
And ne'er was known with her to be at strife,
But Betty was the comfort of his life.
His wisdom was so great, so great his name,
My pen is far unfit for such a theme;
The subject is too high for my poor Muse;
In commendations I his worth abuse.
His goodness to the poor, all must confess,
In which he ever placed his happiness.
His learning too was equal to his name;
His Grammar shows him not belied by fame.
Now join, ye nymphs, and all ye swains combine;
Join all, to let your sorrow equal mine.
What grief's sufficient for so great a man;
Who can express the worth of Sheridan?


Epitaph
Stop Travelers; bewail the sad estate
Of one, alas! too soon cut down by fate.
Here lies his dust, for wisdom once renowned;
Search Europe, Asia, all the world around:
His fellow surely is not to be found.