Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove The pangs of guilty power and hapless love! Rest here, distressd by poverty no more; Here find that calm thou gavst so oft before; Sleep undisturbd within this peaceful shrine, Till angels wake thee with a note like thine!
How small of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! Still to ourselves in every place consigned, Our own felicity we make or find. With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.