lict of sir
William Trumbull invited him, by Pope's recommendation, to educate her
son; whom he first instructed at home, and then attended to Cambridge.
The lady afterwards detained him with her as the auditor of her
accounts. He often wandered to London, and amused himself with the
conversation of his friends.

He died in 1730[26], at East Hampstead, in Berkshire, the seat of lady
Trumbal; and Pope, who had been always his friend, honoured him with an
epitaph, of which he borrowed the two first lines from Crashaw.

Fenton was tall and bulky, inclined to corpulence, which he did not
lessen by much exercise; for he was very sluggish and sedentary, rose
late, and when he had risen, sat down to his books or papers. A woman
that once waited on him in a lodging, told him, as she said, that he
would "lie a-bed, and be fed with a spoon." This, however, was not the
worst that might have been prognosticated; for Pope says, in his
letters, that "he died of indolence;" but his immediate distemper was
the gout.

Of his morals and his conversation the account is uniform: he was never
named but with praise and fondness, as a man in the highest degree
amiable and excellent. Such was the character given him by the earl of
Orrery, his pupil; such is the testimony of Pope[27]; and such were the
suffrages of all who could boast of his acquaintance.

By a former writer of his life[28], a story is told, which ought not to
be forgotten. He used, in the latter part of his time, to pay his
relations in the country a yearly visit. At an entertainment made for
the family by his elder brother, he observed, that one of his sisters,
who had married unfortunately, was absent, and found, upon inquiry, that
distress had made her thought unworthy of invitation. As she was at no
great distance, he refused to sit at the table till she was called, and,
when she had taken her place, was careful to show her particular
attention.

His collection of poems is now to be considered. The ode to the Sun is
written upon a common plan, without uncommon sentiments; but its
greatest fault is its length.

No poem should be long of which the purpose is only to strike the
fancy, without enlightening the understanding by precept, ratiocination,
or narrative. A blaze first pleases, and then tires the sight.

Of Florelio it is sufficient to say, that it is an occasional pastoral,
which implies something neither natural nor artificial, neither comick
nor serious.