ON THE DEATH OF A MOST DISTINGUISHED
MAN, SIR ROGER MANWOOD, LORD CHIEF
BARON OF THE EXCHEQUER
The terror of him who prowls by night, the stern scourge of one
who is profligate, both a Hercules, son of Jove, and a bird of prey
upon the rough brigand, is encased in an urn. Rejoice, ye sons of
wickedness; mourn, unoffending one, with hair in disorder over
your pitiable neck. The light of officialdom, the glory of the wor-
shipful law, lies dead. Alas, much virtue has passed with him to the
barren shores of Acheron. In view of his so numerous virtues, spare,
O Envy, this one man; be not overly presumptuous toward the
ashes of one whose glance has held thunderstruck so many thousands
of mortals. On these terms, when Death's pale messenger wounds
you, may your bones rest happily, and may your fame survive the
memorials of your marble tomb.