Classic Poem

In an Epitaph which he desired the Author to write.

U NDER this turf, to mould'ring earth consign'd,
Lies he, who once was fickle as the wind.
Alike the scenes of good and ill he knew,
From the chaste temple to the lewdest stew.
Virtue and vice in him alternate reign'd;
That, fill'd his mind, and this, his pocket drain'd.
Till, in the contest they so stubborn grew,
Death gave the parting blow, and both withdrew.