Classic Poem

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 grayed 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.