And now am careless what thou say'st of me,
Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear,
My soul's at rest, my head lies quiet here.
What faults you see in me, take care to shun,
And look at home, enough's there to be done.
ISLINGTON.
TRANSCRIPT OF AN INSCRIPTION
With the abbreviations and spelling, as it was taken from
the plate itself, June 28th, 1751.
I pye the Crysten man that hast goe to see this:
to pye for the soulls of them that here buryed is |
And remember that in Cryst we be bretherne:
the wich hath comaundid eu'ry man to py for other |
This sayth _Robert Midleton & Johan_ his Wyf.
Here wrappid in clay. Abiding the mercy |
Of Almyghty god till domesdaye.
Wych was sutyme s'unt to s' gorge hasting knyght |
Erle of huntingdunt passid this tnscitory lyf,
in the yere of our Lord god m cccc...... |
And the......day of the moneth of ......
On whose soull Almyghty god have m'cy amen |
"This Inscription (says a writer in _The Gentleman's Magazine_, for
1751) was in _Gothic_ letters, on a plate of brass, in the middle
aisle, on the floor near the entrance into the chancel. It contains
six lines, the end of each is marked thus |; and it appears to have
been laid down in the life-time of _Robert Midleton_, because neither
the year, day, nor month are set down, but spaces left for that
purpose. I observe, that the inhabitants of Islington want to make
their church older than I presume it is, and quote this inscription
as it is in _Strype_, 1401, in support of that notion, when it is
plain 1500, and is all that it says; and Sir G. Hastings was not
created Earl of _Huntingdon_ till the 8th of December, 1529, so that
this inscription must be wrote after that time. The oldest date that
appears anywhere about the church, is at the south-east corner of the
steeple, and was not visible till the west gallery was pulled down,
it is 1483; but as these figures are of a modern shape, it looks as
if it was done in the last century; the old way of making these
characters was in _Arabic_, and not as they are now generally made."
* * * * *
She's gone: so, reader, must you go. But where?
* * * * *
On Lady Molesworth.
A peerless matron, pride of female life,
In every state, as widow, maid, or wife;
Who, wedded to threescore, preserv'd her fame,
She lived a phoenix, and expired in flame.
ST. AUGUSTIN'S CHURCH.
William Lamb.
O Lamb of God which Sin didst take away,
And as a Lamb was offered up for Sin.
Where I poor Lamb went from thy Flock astray,
Yet thou, O Lord, vouchsafe thy Lamb to Winn
Home to thy flock, and hold thy Lamb therein,
That at the Day when Lambs and Goats shall sever,
Of thy choice Lambs, Lamb may be one for ever.
TEMPLE CHURCH.
Mary Gaudy, Aged 22, 1671.
This fair young Virgin for a nuptial Bed
More fit, is lodg'd (sad fate!) among the Dead,
Storm'd by rough Winds, so falls in all her pride,
The full blown rose design'd t' adorn a Bride.
KENSINGTON.
Here are deposited the remains of Mrs. Ann Floyer, the beloved wife
of Mr. Rd Floyer, of Thistle Grove, in this parish, died on Thursday,
the 8th of May, /23. God hath chosen her as a pattern for the other
angels.
TEMPLE CHURCH.
Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest,
Till it be called for, let it rest;
For while this jewel here is set,
The grave is but a cabinet.
STEPNEY.
My wife she's dead, and here she lies,
There's nobody laughs, and nobody cries;
Where she's gone, and how she fares,
Nobody knows, and nobody cares.
ST. DUNSTAN.
Here lies Dame Dorothy Peg,
Who never had issue except in her leg,
So great was her art, and so deep was her cunning,
Whilst one leg stood still the other kept running.
CHISWICK.
The illustrious Hogarth is buried in this churchyard, and the following
lines, by David Garrick, are inscribed on his tomb:--
Farewell! great painter of mankind,
Who reached the noblest point of art,
Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind,
And through the eye correct the heart.
If genius fire thee, reader stay,
If nature move thee, drop a tear,
If neither touch thee, turn away,
For Hogarth's _honour'd dust_ lies here.
ST. MICHAEL'S, CROOKED LANE,
Here lyeth, wrapt in clay,
The body of William Wray;
I have no more to say.
ST. ANNE'S, SOHO.
On Theodore, King of Corsica, written by Horace Walpole.
Near this place is interred.
Theodore, King of Corsica,
Who died in this parish Dec. 11, 1756,
Immediately after leaving the King's Bench prison,
By the benefit of the Act of Insolvency,
In consequence of which he resigned
His Kingdom of Corsica
For the use of his creditors.
The grave great teacher to a level brings
Heroes and beggars, galley slaves and kings,
But Theodore this moral learn'd ere dead,
Fate pour'd its lessons on his living head,
Bestowed a kingdom and denied him bread.
Monmouthshire.
CHEPSTOW.
Here or elsewhere (all's one to you or me),
Earth, air, or water, gripes my ghostly dust,
None knows how soon to be by fire set free;
Reader, if you an old try'd rule will trust,
You'll gladly do and suffer what you must.
My time was spent in serving you and you.
And death's my pay, it seems, and welcome too.
Revenge destroying but itself, while I
To birds of prey leave my old cage and fly;
Examples preach to the eye--care then (mine says)
Not how you end, but how you spend your days.
* * * * *
For thirty years secluded from mankind,
Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison. Not to him
Did Nature's fair varieties exist,
He never saw the sun's delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars he poured
A sad and broken splendour.
* * * * *
In the passage leading from the nave to the north aisle in this church,
is interred the body of Henry Marten, one of the Judges who presided at
the trial of Charles 1st with the following Epitaph over him, written by
himself:--
Here Sept. 9th 1680,
was buried
A true born Englishman.
Who, in Berkshire was well known
To love his country's freedom like his own,
But being immured full twenty years,
Had time to write as doth appear.
MATHERN.
John Lee is dead, that good old man,
You ne'er will see him more,
He used to wear an old brown Coat,
All buttoned down before.
* * * * *
Here lyeth entombed the body of Theodoric, King of Morganuch, or
Glamorgan, commonly called St. Theodoric, and accounted a martyr,
because he was slain in a battle against the Saxons (being then
Pagans) and in defence of the Christian religion. The battle was
fought at Tynterne, where he obtained a great victory. He died here,
being on his way homewards, three days after the battle; having taken
order with Maurice his son, who succeeded him in the kingdom, that in
the same place he should happen to decease, a church should be built
and his body buried in the same, which was accordingly performed in
the year 600.
Norfolk.
HOTHILL.
Miles Branthwaite.
If Death would take an answer, he was free
From all those seats of ills that he did see,
And gave no measure that he would not have
Given to him as hardly as he gave:
Then thou, Miles Branthwaite, might have answer'd Death,
And to be so moral might boyle breath,
Thou wast not yet to die. But be thou blest,
From weary life thou art gone quiet to rest,
Joy in the freedom from a prison, thou
Wast by God's hands pluckt out but now,
Free from the dust and cobwebs of this vale;
And richer art thou by the heavenly bail
Than he that shut thee up. This heap of stones
To thy remembrance, and to chest thy bones,
Thy wife doth consecrate; so sleep till then,
When all graves must open, all yield up their men.
NORWICH.
Thomas Legge.
That love that living made us two but one,
Wishes at last we both may have this tomb.
The head of Gostlin still continues here,
As kept for Legge, to whom it was so dear.
By death he lives, for ever to remain,
And Gostlin hopes to meet him once again.
* * * * *
Sarah York this life did resigne
On May the 13th, 79.
* * * * *
Here lies the body of honest Tom Page,
Who died in the 33rd year of his age.
* * * * *
On Bryant Lewis, who was barbarously murdered upon the heath near
Thetford, Sept. 13, 1698.
Fifteen wide wounds this stone veils from thine eyes,
But reader, hark their voice doth pierce the skies.
Vengeance, cried Abel's blood against cursed Cain,
But better things spake Christ when he was slain.
Both, both, cries Lewis 'gainst his barbarous foes,
Blood, Lord, for blood, but save his soul from woe,
* * * * *
John Powl.
Though Death hath seized on me as his prey,
Yet all must know we have a judgment day,
Therefore whilst life on earth in you remain,
Praise all your God who doth your lives maintain,
That after death to glory he may us raise,
Yield to His Majesty honour, laud, and praise.
* * * * *
Henry Hall.
The phoenix of his time
Lies here but sordid clay;
His thoughts were most sublime;
His soul is sprung away.
Then let this grave keep in protection
His ashes until the resurrection,
* * * * *
Urith Leverington.
The night is come; for sleep, lo! here I stay,
My three sweet babes sleep here--we wait for day.
That we may rise, and up to bliss ascend,
Where crowns and thrones, and robes shall us attend.
Thy worst is past, O Death; thous't done thy part,
Thou could'st but kill, we fear no second dart.
SWANTON MORLEY.
Thos Heming--Attorney.
Weep, widows, orphans; all your late support,
Himself is summon'd to a higher court:
Living he pleaded yours, but with this clause,
That Christ at death should only plead his cause.
COYSTWICK.
Mrs. Sarah Mills,
Mrs. Rebecca Ward.
Under this stone, in easy slumber lies
Two dusty bodies, that at last shall rise:
Their parted atoms shall again rejoin,
Be cast into new moulds by hands divine.
HENNINGHALL.
John Kett.
Though we did live so many years,
Prepare, O youth, for Death,
For if he should at noon appear,
You must give up your breath.
HADDISCOE.
William Salter.
Here lies Will Salter, honest man,
Deny it, Envy, if you can;
True to his business and his trust,
Always punctual, always just;
His horses, could they speak, would tell
They loved their good old master well.
His up-hill work is chiefly done,
His stage is ended, race is run;
One journey is remaining still,
To climb up Sion's holy hill.
And now his faults are all forgiven,
Elijah-like, drives up to heaven,
Takes the reward of all his pains,
And leaves to other hands the reins.
HUNSTANTON.
I am not dead, but sleepeth here,
And when the trumpet sound I will appear.
Four balls through me pierced their way,
Hard it was, I had no time to pray.
The stone that here you do see
My comrades erected for the sake of me.
BURCH HEGGIN.
Acrostic Epitaph on Robert Porter, a noted miser.
R iches and wealth I now despise,
O nce the delight of heart and eyes;
B ut since I've known the vile deceit,
E nvy has met its own defeat.
R egardless of such empty toys,
T ell all to seek for heavenly joys.
P ull'd down by age and anxious cares,
O ppressed am I by dismal fears,
R elating to my future state,
T o know what then will be my fate.
E ternal God! to Thee I pray
R emove these fearful doubts away.
SWAFFHAM.
On a Lawyer.
Here lieth one, believe it if you can,
Who tho' an attorney was an honest man,
The gates of heaven shall open wide,
But will be shut against all the tribe beside.
THETFORD.
My grandfather was buried here,
My cousin Jane, and two uncles dear;
My father perished with a mortification in his thighs,
My sister dropped down dead in the Minories.
But the reason why I am here, according to my thinking,
Is owing to my good living and hard drinking,
Therefore good Christians, if you'd wish to live long,
Beware of drinking brandy, gin, or anything strong.
LODDON.
When on this spot, affection's down-cast eye
The lucid tribute shall no more bestow;
When Friendship's breast no more shall heave a sigh,
In kind remembrance of the dust below;
Should the rude Sexton, digging near this tomb,
A place of rest for others to prepare,
The vault beneath, to violate, presume,
May some opposing Christian cry, "Forbear--
"Forbear, rash mortal, as thou hop'st to rest,
When death shall lodge thee in thy destin'd bed,
With ruthless spade, unkindly to molest
The peaceful slumbers of the kindred dead!"
GILLINGHAM.
On an Actor.
"Sacred to the memory of THOMAS JACKSON, Comedian, who was engaged
December 21st, 1741, to play a comic cast of characters in this great
theatre, the world, for many of which he was prompted by nature to
excel--The season being ended--his benefit over--the charges all
paid, and his account closed, he made his exit in the tragedy of
Death, on the 17th of March, 1798, in full assurance of being called
once more to rehearsal, and where he hopes to find his forfeits all
cleared, his cast of parts bettered, and his situation made agreeable
by Him who paid the great stock debt, for the love He bore to
performers in general."
LYNN.
William Scrivener,
Cook to the Corporation.
Alas! alas! _Will Scriviner's_ dead, who by his art
Could make death's skeleton edible in each part;
Mourn, squeamish stomachs, and ye curious palates,
You've lost your dainty dishes and your salades;
Mourn for yourselves, but not for him i' th' least,
He's gone to taste of a more Heav'nly feast.
Northamptonshire.
BARNWELL.
An Innkeeper.
Man's life is like a winter's day,
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dinner stay and are full fed,
The oldest man but sups and goes to bed;
Large is his debt who lingers out the day,
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay;
Death is the waiter, some few run on tick,
And some, alas! must pay the bill to Nick!
Tho' I owe'd much, I hope long trust is given,
And truly mean to pay all debts in Heaven.
PETERBOROUGH.
Sir Richard Worme.
Does worm eat Worm? Knight Worme this truth confirms,
For here, with worms, lies Worme, a dish for worms.
Does worm eat Worme? sure Worme will this deny,
For Worme with worms, a dish for worms don't lie.
'Tis so, and 'tis not so, for free from worms,
'Tis certain Worme is blest without his worms.
* * * * *
Jane Parker.
Heare lyeth a midwife brought to bed,
Deliveresse delivered;
Her body being churched here,
Her soule gives thanks in yonder sphere.
STAVERTON.
Here lies the body of Betty Bowden,
Who would live longer, but she couden;
Sorrow and grief made her decay,
Till her bad leg card her away.
GAYTON.
William Houghton.
Neere fourscore years have I tarryed
To this mother to be marryed;
One wife I had, and children ten,
God bless the living. Amen, Amen.
NORTHAMPTON.
Pray for me, old Thomas Dunn,
But if you don't, 'tis all one.
* * * * *
Here lies the corpse of Susan Lee,
Who died of heartfelt pain;
Because she loved a faithless he,
Who loved not her again.
Nottinghamshire.
ALVERTON.
Beneath the droppings of this spout, {80a}
Here lies the body once so stout,
Of FRANCIS THOMPSON.
A soul this carcase long possess'd,
Which for its virtue was caress'd,
By all who knew the owner best.
The _Rufford_ {80b} records can declare
His actions, who, for seventy year,
Both drew and drank its potent beer.
Fame mention not in all that time,
In this great Butler the least crime,
To stain his reputation.
To Envy's self we now appeal,
If aught of fault she can reveal,
To make her declaration.
Then rest, good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear;
Thy virtues guard thy soul--thy body good strong beer.
He died July 6, 1739, aged 83.
NEWARK.
From earth my body first arose,
And now to earth again it goes:
I ne'er desire to have it more,
To tease me as it did before.
Northumberland.
NEWCASTLE.
Here lies poor Wallace,
The prince of good fellows,
Clerk of Allhallows,
And maker of bellows.
He bellows did make to the day of his death,
But he that made bellows could never make breath.
* * * * *
Here lies James, of tender affection,
Here lies Isabell, of sweet complexion,
Here lies Katheren, a pleasant child,
Here lies Mary, of all most mild,
Here lies Alexander, a babe most sweet,
Here lies Jannet, as the Lord saw meet.
ALNWICK.
Here lieth Martin Elphinston,
Who with his sword did cut in sun-
der the daughter of Sir Harry
Crispe, who did his daughter marry.
She was fat and fulsome;
But men will some-
times eat bacon with their bean,
And love the fat as well as lean.
TYNEMOUTH.
Wha lies here?
Pate Watt, gin ye speer.
Poor Pate! is that thou?
Ay, by my soul, is 't;
But I's dead now.
ILDERTON.
Under this stone lies Bobbity John,
Who, when alive, to the world was a wonder;
And would have been so yet, had not death in a fit,
Cut his soul and his body asunder.
Oxfordshire.
WOLVERCOT.
Fair Rosomond's Tomb.
Rosomond was buried at Godstow, a small island formed by the divided
stream of the Isis, in the parish of Wolvercot, near Oxford. The
following quaint epitaph was inscribed upon her tomb:--
"Hic jacet in Thumba, Rosa Mundi, non Rosamunda,
Non redolet sed olet, quae redolere solet."
Imitated in English.
"Here lies not Rose the chaste, but Rose the Fair,
Her scents no more perfume, but taint the air."
Another translation.
"The Rose of the World, a sad minx,
Lies here;--let's hope she repented:
She doesn't smell well now, but stinks,--
She always _used_ to be scented."
Another.
Here doth Fayre Rosamund like any peasant lie:
She once was fragrant, but now smells unpleasantly.
* * * * *
On Meredith--an Organist.
Here lies one blown out of breath,
Who lived a merry life, and died a Merideth.
* * * * *
On a Letter Founder.
Under this stone lies honest SYL,
Who dy'd--though sore against his will;
Yet in his fame, he shall survive,--
Learning shall keep his name alive;
For he the parent was of letters,
And _founded_, to _confound_ his betters;
Though what those letters should contain,
Did never once concern his brain,
Since, therefore, Reader, he is gone,
Pray let him not be trod upon.
* * * * *
Old Vicar Sutor lieth here,
Who had a Mouth from ear to ear,
Reader tread lightly on the sod,
For if he gapes, your' gone by G--.
* * * * *
Here lieth the body of Ann Sellars, buried by this stone,
Who dyed on January 15th day, 1731.
Likewise here lies dear Isaac Sellars, my Husband and my Right,
Who was buried on that same day come seven years, 1738.
In seven years time there comes a change! observe, and here you'll
see
On that same day come seven years, my husband's laid by me.
* * * * *
E. G. Hancock, died August 3, 1666.
John Hancock, Sen. ---- 4, ----
John Hancock, Jun. ---- 7, ----
Oner Hancock, ---- 7, ----
William Hancock, ---- 7, ----
Alice Hancock, ---- 9, ----
Ann Hancock, ---- 10, ----
What havoc Death made in one family, in the course of Seven days.
ENSHAM.
On John Green.
If true devotion or tryde honesty
Could have for him got long lives liberty,
Nere had he withered but still growne Green,
Nor dyed but to ye Poor still helping been.
But he is tane from us yet this we comfort have,
Heaven hath his Soule still (Green) though body is wasting Grave,
In progeniem filii defunctam adjacentam.
My fruit first failed here we low ly,
Live well then, fear not all must dy.
BANBURY.
Here do lye our dear boy,
Whom God hath tain from me:
And we do hope that us shall go to he,
For he can never come back again to we.
NETTLEBED.
Both young and old that passeth by,
Remember well that here lies I,
Then think on Death, for soon too true,
Alas twill be that here lies you.
* * * * *
A doctor of divinity, who lies in the neighbourhood of Oxford, has his
complaint stated for him with unusual brevity, as well as his place of
interment:--
"He died of a quinsy,
And was buried at Binsey."
Rutlandshire.
OAKHAM.
John Spong, Jobbing Carpenter.
Who many a sturdy oak had lain along,
Fell'd by Death's surer hatchet, here lies SPONG,
Posts oft he made, but ne'er a place could get,
And liv'd by railing, though he was no wit:
Old saws he had, although no antiquarian,
And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian.
Shropshire.
SHREWSBURY.
On an Old Maid.
Here lies the body of Martha Dias,
Who was always uneasy, and not over pious;
She lived to the age of threescore and ten,
And gave that to the worms she refused to the men.
* * * * *
On a Watchmaker.
Thy movements, Isaac, kept in play,
Thy wheels of life felt no decay
For fifty years at least;
Till, by some sudden, secret stroke,
The balance or the mainspring broke,
And all the movements ceas'd.
SHIFFNALL.
August 7th, 1714, Mary, the wife of Joseph Yates, of Lizard Common,
within the parish, was buried, aged 127 years. She walked to London
just after the Fire, in 1666; was hearty and strong at 120 years; and
married a third husband at 92.
CEUN.
Charles Dike.
Joyous his birth, wealth o'er his cradle shone,
Gen'rous he prov'd, far was his bounty known;
Men, horses, hounds were feasted at his hall,
There strangers found a welcome bed and stall;
Quick distant idlers answered to his horn,
And all was gladness in the sportsman's morn.
But evening came, and colder blew the gale,
Means, overdone, had now begun to fail;
His wine was finished, and he ceas'd to brew,
And fickle friends now hid them from his view.
Unknown, neglected, pin'd the man of worth,
Death his best friend, his resting-place the Earth.
* * * * *
The following is copied from a head-stone, set up in the churchyard of
High Ercall. Those who are fond of the sublime, will certainly rejoice
over this precious poetical morsel:--
Salop, Oct. 1797.
ELIZABETH the Wife Of RICHARD BAARLAMB,
passed to Eternity on Sunday, the 21st of May,
1797, in the 71st year of her age.
When terrestrial all in Chaos shall Exhibit effervescence,
Then Celestial virtues in their most Refulgent Brilliant essence,
Shall with beaming Beauteous Radiance, thro' the ebullition Shine;
Transcending to Glorious Regions Beatifical, Sublime.
CHURCH STRETTON.
On a Thursday she was born,
On a Thursday made a bride,
On a Thursday put to bed,
On a Thursday broke her leg, and
On a Thursday died.
Somersetshire.
BARWICK.
Sarah Higmore, aet. 6.
Ye modern fair, who'er you be,
This Truth we can aver:
A lesson of humility
You all may learn from her.
She had what none of you can boast,
With all your Wit and Sense--
She had what you, alas! have lost,
And that was--Innocence.
TAUNTON.
James Waters.
Death, traversing the western road,
And asking where true merit lay,
Made in this town a short abode,
And took this worthy man away.
YEOVIL.
John Webb,
Son of John and Mary Webb, Clothiers, who died of the
measles, May 3d, 1646, aged 3 years.
How still he lies!
And clos'd his eyes,
That shone as bright as day!
The cruel measles,
Like _clothier's teasels_,
Have scratched his life away.
_Cochineal red_,
His lips have fled,
Which now are _blue_ and _black_.
Dear pretty wretch,
How thy limbs _stretch_,
Like _cloth upon_ the _rack_.
_Repress_ thy sighs,
The husband cries,
My dear, and not repine,
For ten to one,
When God's work's done,
He'll _come off superfine_.
Staffordshire.
YOXHALL.
On Anthony Cooke, who died on Easter Monday.
At the due sacrifice of the Paschall Lambe,
April had 8 days wept in showers, then came
Leane, hungry death, who never pitty tooke,
And cause the feast was ended, slew this Cooke.
On Easter Monday, he lyves then noe day more,
But sunk to rise with him that rose before;
He's here intomb'd; a man of virtue's line
Out reacht his yeares, yet they were seventy-nine.
He left on earth ten children of eleven
To keep his name, whilst himself went to heaven.
BILSTON.
In Mem. of Mary Maria, wife of Wm Dodd, who died Decr 12th, A.D.
1847, aged 27. Also of their children, Louisa, who died Decr 12th,
1847, aged 9 months; and Alfred, who died Jany 3rd, A. D. 1848, aged
2 years and 9 months.
All victims to the neglect of sanitary regulation, and specially
referred to in a recent lecture on Health in this town.
And the Lord said to the angel that destroyed, it is enough, stay now
thine hand.--1 Chron. xx. 17.
* * * * *
In Mem. of Joseph, son of Joseph and Mary Meek, who was accidentally
drowned in the cistern of the day school adjoining this church, April
30th, 1845, aged 8 years. This distressing event is recorded by the
minister, as an expression of sympathy with the parents, and caution
to the children of the school--a reproof to the proprietors of the
open wells, pits and landslips; the want of fencing about which is
the frequent cause of similar disaster in these districts; and as a
memento to all of the uncertainty of life, and the consequent
necessity of immediate and continued preparation for death.
* * * * *
"And if any man ask you, Why do you loose him? Then shall ye say
unto him, Because the Lord hath need of him." {90}--Luke xix. 31.
BUTTERTON.
Near to this stone John Barnett lies,
There's no man frets, nor no man cries,
Where he's gone, or how he fares,
There's no man knows, nor no man cares.
STAFFORD.
Here Leah's fruitfulness,
Here Rachael's beauty;
Here lyeth Rebecca's faith,
Here Sarah's duty.
WOLSTANSTON.
Ann Jennings.
Some have children, some have none;
Here lies the mother of twenty-one.
LICHFIELD.
Live well--die never;
Die well--live for ever.