the patience, and resignation of a
philosopher, and the true devotion of a christian; but would not be
persuaded to go to rest the night before, till he made such a will, as
he thought would be agreeable to lord Clarendon's inclinations; who
after his death took care of his funeral. He was decently interred in
the cloisters of Westminster-Abbey, next to his master Dr. Knipe, to
whom a little before, he dedicated his Heathen Gods.----The gentleman
already mentioned, who has transmitted some account of our author to
posterity, delineates his character in the following manner. 'He was
a civilian, exquisitely well read; a skillful judge, and among the
learned, an universal scholar, a critic, and an adept; in all sciences
and languages expert; and our English. Ovid, among the poets: In
conversation, he was grave and entertaining, without levity or spleen:
As an author, his character may be also summ'd up in the following
lines.'

Read here, in softest sounds the sweetest satire,
A pen dipt deep in gall, a heart good-nature;
An English Ovid, from his birth he seems,
Inspired alike with strong poetic dreams;
The Roman, rants of heroes, gods, and Jove,
The Briton, purely paints the art of love.

As a specimen of our author's versification, we shall select a Poem of
his called, the Art of making Puddings; published in his Miscellanies.

I sing of food, by British nurse design'd,
To make the stripling brave, and maiden kind.
Delay not muse in numbers to rehearse
The pleasures of our life, and sinews of our verse.
Let pudding's dish, most wholsome, be thy theme,
And dip thy swelling plumes in fragrant cream.
Sing then that dim so fitting to improve
A tender modesty, and trembling love;
Swimming in butter of a golden hue,
Garnish'd with drops of Rose's spicy dew.
Sometimes the frugal matron seems in haste,
Nor cares to beat her pudding into paste:
Yet milk in proper skillet she will place,
And gently spice it with a blade of mace;
Then set some careful damsel to look to't;
And still to stir away the bishop's-foot;
For if burnt milk shou'd to the bottom stick,
Like over-heated-zeal, 'twould make folks sick.
Into the Milk her flow'r she gently throws,
As valets now wou'd powder tender beaus:
The liquid forms in hasty mass unite,
Both equally delicious as they're white.
In mining dish the hasty mass is thrown,
And seems to want no graces but its own.
Yet still