In Memory of Mr. Cartwright.

STay, Prince of Phancie, stay, we are not fit
To welcome or admire thy Raptures yet:
Such horrid Ignorance benights the Times,
That Wit and Honour are become our Crimes.
But when those happy Pow'rs which guard thy dust
To us and to thy Mem'ry shall be just,
And by a flame from thy blest Genius lent
Rescue us from our dull Imprisonment,
Unsequester our Fancies, and create
A Worth that may upon thy Glories wait:
We then shall understand thee, and descry
The splendour of restored Poetry.
Till when let no bold hand profane thy shrine,
'Tis high Wit-Treason to debase thy coin.