An inferior artist's only chance of giving pleasure. - John Conington

If men and mortal arms ye slight,
Know there are gods who watch o'er right.

Here sees he the illustrious dead
Who fighting for their country bled;
Priests who while earthly life remained
Preserved that life unsoiled, unstained;
Blest bards, transparent souls and clear,
Whose song was worthy Phoebus' ear;
Inventors who by arts refined
The common lot of human kind,
With all who grateful memory won
By services to others done:
A goodly brotherhood, bedight
With coronals of virgin white.

O Fortune, cruellest of heavenly powers,
Why make such game of this poor life of ours?