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'Tis said, for ev'ry common Grief
The Muses can afford Relief:
And, surely, on that heav'nly Train
A Boyle can never call in vain.
Then strait invoke the sacred Nine,
Nor impious slight their Gifts divine;
Dispel those Clouds, which damp your Fire;
Shew, Bath, like
The Earl's Answer,
Nor Bath, nor Tunbridge, can my Lays inspire;
Nor radiant Beauty make me strike the Lyre:
Far from the busy Croud I sit, forlorn;
And sigh in secret, and in Silence mourn:
Nor can my Anguish ever find an End;
I weep a Father, and have lost a Friend.
Reply to the foregoing Verses.
Why did I hope to make your Anguish less?
I try'd to cure, and I have caught, Distress.
Suppress your Sighs, dry up your Tears; 'tis Time:
Excess of Virtue may become a Crime.
You lost, you say, a Friend, and Father too;
But know, Mankind would lose a Friend in you.
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Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"To The Right Honourable John Earl Of Orrery, At Bath, After The Death Of The Late Earl." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 31 Jul 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/26684/to-the-right-honourable-john-earl-of-orrery,-at-bath,-after-the-death-of-the-late-earl.>.