Where one has fortunately found a place,
More faithful to him than his marble wash,
Which eating agei, nor fire shall e'er deface.
A monument that, as it has, shall laft
And prove a monument to that defac'd ;
Itself, but with the world, not to be raz'd.
And even in their flow'ry characters,
My father's grave, part of your friendship shares;
For you have honour'd his in firewing theirs.
Thus by an office, though particular,
Virtue's whole common-weal obliged are ;
For in a virtuous aćt all good men share.

And by this act, the world is taught to know,
That the true friend thip we to merit owe,
Is not discharg'd by compliment and show,
But yours is friendship of lo pure a kind,
From all mean ends and interett fo retin'd,
It ought to be a pattern to mankind :
For, whereas molt men's friendships here beneath,
Do perilh with their friends' expiring breath,
Yours proves a friendship living after death;
By which the generous Wotton, reverend Donne,
Soft Herbert, and the church's champion,
Hooker, are rescu'd from oblivion.

b His monument in St. Paul's church before the late dreadful fire, 1665.

Jamque opus exegi, quod, nec Jovis Ira, nec Ignis,
Nec poterit Ferrum, nec erlax abolere V'etustas,

OVID.

Through all th' employments of his wit and spirit,
Whose great effects these kingdoms still inherit,
The trials then, now trophies of his merit;
Nay, through disgrace, which oft the worthiest have,
Thro' all fiate-tempelis, thro' each wind and wave,
And laid him in an honourable grave.
And yours, and the whole world's beloved Donne,
When he a long and wild career had run,
To the meridian of his glorious sun;

And being then an object of much ruth,
Led on by vanities, error, and youth,
Was long ere he did find the way to truth:
By the fame clew, after his youthful swing,
To serve at his God's altar here you bring,
Where an once wanton muse doth anthems fing.
And though by God's most powerful grace alone
His heart was settled in Religion,
Yet 'tis by you we know how it was done;
And know, that having crucify'd ranities
And fixt his hope, he clos’d up his own eyes,
And then your friend a faint and preacher dies.

But, my dear friend, 'tis so, that you and I,
By a condition of mortality,
With all this great, and more proud world, must die:

In which estate I ask no more of Fame,
Nor other monument of Honour claim,
Than that of your true friend, t'advance my name,
And if your many merits shall have bred
An abler pen to write your life when dead,

I think an honefter cannot be read.
Jan. 17, 1672.

CHARLES COTTON",