Classic Poem

If Wit, or Honesty, could save
Our mould'ring Ashes from the Grave;
This Stone had yet remain'd unmark'd,
I still writ Prose, and True still bark'd:
But envious Fate has claim'd its Due,
Here lies the mortal part of True:
His deathless Virtues must survive,
To better us that are alive.

His Prudence, and his Wit, were seen
In that, from Mary 's Grace and Mien,
He own'd the Pow'r, and lov'd the Queen:
By long Obedience he confess'd,
That serving her was to be bless'd:
Ye Murmurers, let True evince
That Men are Beasts, and Dogs have Sense.

His Faith and Truth all Whitehall knows,
He ne'er could fawn, or flatter those
Whom he believ'd were Mary 's Foes:
Ne'er sculk'd from whence his Sovereign led him,
Nor snarl'd against the Hand that fed him:
Read this, you Statesmen now in Favour,
And mend your own, by True 's Behaviour.