If Wit or Honesty cou'd save
Our mouldring Ashes from the Grave,
This Stone had yet remain'd unmark'd,
I still wrote Prose, and True still bark'd;
But envious Fate has claim'd its due,
Here lies the mortal Part of True;
His deathless Virtues must survive,
To better us that are alive.
His Prudence and his Wit were seen,
In that, from Mary's Grace and Meen,
He own'd the Pow'r, and lov'd the Queen.
By long Obedience he confest,
That serving her was to be blest.
Ye Murmurers, let True evince,
That Men are Beasts, and Dogs have Sence.
His Faith and Truth all White-hall knows,
He ne're could fawn, or flatter those
Whom he believ'd were Mary's Foes.
Ne're skulk'd from whence his Soveraign led him,
Nor snarl'd against the Hand that fed him.

Read this ye Statesmen now in Favour,
And mend your own, by True's Behaviour.