Classic Poem

That tongue, which set the table on a roar,
And charmed the public ear, is heard no more.
Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spake, before the tongue, what Shakespeare writ.
Cold is that hand, which, living, was stretched forth,
At friendship's call, to succour modest worth.
Here lies James Quin. Deign, reader, to be taught,
Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In nature's happiest mould however cast,
To this complexion thou must come at last.