generately sunk,
but they have made this Return, and even when they have not been
wrought up by the generous Endeavour so as to receive the Advantages
designed by it. This Praise, which arises first in the Mouth of
particular Persons, spreads and lasts according to the Merit of
Authors; and when it thus meets with a full Success changes its
Denomination, and is called _Fame_. They who have happily arrived at
this, are, even while they live, enflamed by the Acknowledgments of
others, and spurred on to new Undertakings for the Benefit of Mankind,
notwithstanding the Detraction which some abject Tempers would cast
upon them: But when they decease, their Characters being freed from
the Shadow which _Envy_ laid them under, begin to shine out with
greater Splendour; their Spirits survive in their Works; they are
admitted into the highest Companies, and they continue pleasing and
instructing Posterity from Age to Age. Some of the best gain a
Character, by being able to shew that they are no Strangers to them;
and others obtain a new Warmth to labour for the Happiness and Ease of
Mankind, from a Reflection upon those Honours which are paid to their
Memories.

The Thought of this took me up as I turned over those Epigrams which
are the Remains of several of the _Wits_ of _Greece_, and perceived
many dedicated to the Fame of those who had excelled in beautiful
poetick Performances. Wherefore, in pursuance to my Thought, I
concluded to do something along with them to bring their Praises into
a new Light and Language, for the Encouragement of those whose modest
Tempers may be deterr'd by the Fear of Envy or Detraction from fair
Attempts, to which their Parts might render them equal. You will
perceive them as they follow to be conceived in the form of Epitaphs,
a sort of Writing which is wholly set apart for a short pointed Method
of Praise.

On _Orpheus_, written by _Antipater_.

'No longer_, Orpheus, _shall thy sacred Strains
Lead Stones, and Trees, and Beasts along the Plains;
No longer sooth the boistrous Wind to sleep,
Or still the Billows of the raging Deep:
For thou art gone, the Muses mourn'd thy Fall
In solemn Strains, thy Mother most of all.
Ye Mortals, idly for your Sons ye moan,
If thus a Goddess could not save her own.'

Observe here, that if we take the Fable for granted, as it was
believed to be in that Age when th