To a Tombe.

TYrant o're tyrants, thou who onely dost
Clip the lascivious beauty without lust;
What horror at thy sight sh…otes through each sence;
How powerfull is thy silent eloquence,
Which never flatters? Thou instruct'st the proud,
That their swolne pompe is but an empty cloud,
Slave to each wind. The faire, those flowers they have
I'resh in their cheeke, are strewd upon a grave.
Thou tell'st the rich, their I doll is but earth.
The vainely pleas'd, that Syren-like their mirth
Betrayes to mischiefe, and that onely he
Da…es welcome death, whose aimes at vertue be.
Which yet more zeale doth to Castara move.
What checks me, when the tombe perswades to love