A Poem in the Nature of an Epitaph of a Friend

If stepdame Nature have been scant,
In dealing Beauty's gifts to me,
My wit shall help supply that want,
And skill instead of shape shall be:

My stature, I confess, is small,
And therefore nill I boast of war.
My name shall fill the heavens and all,
This skin shall serve to hide that scar;

My head to bear the helm unfit,
My hands unapt to murder men:
But little heads oft hold much wit,
And feeble hands can guide a pen.