A Paper Book Is Sent By Boyle, Too Neatly Gilt For Me To Soil. Delany Sends A Silver Standish, When I No More A Pen Can Brandish. Let Both Around My Tomb Be Placed: As Trophies Of A Muse Deceased; And Let The Friendly Lines They Writ, In Praise Of Long-Departed Wit, Be Graved On Either Side In Columns, More To My Praise Than All My Volumes, To Burst With Envy, Spite, And Rage, The Vandals Of The Present Age.