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 O let him not be exil'd even in death! Let mix'd with Scythian hades, a Roman ghot Wander on this inhopitable coat. no more hall urge a wretch's doom; The bolt of Jove purues not in the tomb. To thee, dear wife, ome friend with pious care All that of then remains hall bear; Then will thou weep to ee me o return, And with fond paion clap my ilent urn. O check thy grief, that tender boom pare, Hurt not thy cheeks, nor oil thy flowing hair. Pres the pale marble with thy lips, and give One precious tear, and bid my memory live. The ilent dut hall glow at thy command, And the warm ahes feel thy pious hand. To