Ac hys leeches hym oerbede, vor yt was feble mete,
Ac he wolde it noyt beleve, vor he lovede yt well ynow,
And ete as in better cas, vor thulke lampreye hym slow,
Vor anon rygt thereafter into anguysse he drow,
And died vor thys lampreye, thane hys owe wow."
* * * * *
On John Sydney,
Who died full of the Small Pox.
In this sacred urn there lies,
Till the last trump make it rise,
A light that's wanting in the skies.
A corpse inveloped with stars,
Who, though a stranger to the wars,
Was mark'd with many hundred scars.
Death, at once, spent all his store
Of darts, which this fair body bore,
Though fewer had kill'd many more.
For him our own salt tears we quaff,
Whose virtues shall preserve him safe,
Beyond the power of epitaph.
* * * * *
Upon Two Religious Disputants,
Who are interred within a few paces of each other.
Suspended here a contest see,
Of two whose creeds could ne'er agree;
For whether they would preach or pray,
They'd do it in a different way;
And they wou'd fain our fate deny'd,
In quite a different manner dy'd!
Yet, think not that their rancour's o'er;
No! for 'tis 10 to 1, and more,
Tho' quiet now as either lies,
But they've a wrangle when they rise.
* * * * *
On a disorderly fellow, named Chest.
Here lies one Chest within another.
That chest was good
Which was made of wood,
But who'll say so of t'other?
* * * * *
On John Death.
Here lies John Death, the very same
That went away with a cousin of his name.
* * * * *
Lord Coningsby. By Pope.
Here lies Lord Coningsby--be civil;
The rest God knows--perhaps the Devil.
* * * * *
On General Tulley.
Here lies General Tulley,
Aged 105 years fully;
Nine of his wives beside him doth lie,
And the tenth must lie here when she doth die.
* * * * *
A Bishop's Epitaph.
In this house, which I have borrowed from my brethren worms, lie I,
Samuel, by divine permission late Bishop of this Island, in hope of
the resurrection to Eternal life. Reader, stop! view the Lord
Bishop's palace, and smile.
* * * * *
On a Welchman,
Killed by a Fall from his Horse.
Here lies interr'd, beneath these stones,
David ap-Morgan, ap-Shenkin, ap-Jones;
Hur was born in Wales, hur was travell'd in France,
And hur went to heaven--by a bad mischance.
* * * * *
Card Table Epitaph on a Lady, whose Ruin and Death
were caused by gaming.
Clarissa reign'd the _Queen_ of _Hearts_,
Like _sparkling Diamonds_ were her eyes;
But through the _Knave_ of _Clubs_, false arts,
Here bedded by a _Spade_ she lies.
* * * * *
Reader, in that peace of earth,
In peace rest Thomas Arrowsmith.
In peace he lived, in peace went hence,
With God & men & conscience:
Peace for other men he sought,
And peace with pieces sometimes bought.
Pacifici, may others bee,
But ex pace factro hee.
* * * * *
Ann Mitchell.
Loe here I lye till Trumpets sound,
And Christ for me shall call;
And then I hope to rise again,
And dye no more at all.
* * * * *
O Merciful Jesu that Brought
Mans Soule from Hell;
Have Mercy of the Soule
of Jane Bell.
* * * * *
On a very idle Fellow.
Here lieth one that once was born & cried,
Liv'd several years, & then--& then--he died.
* * * * *
On a Great consumer of Bread, Cheese, and Tobacco.
Here gaffer B . . . Jaws are laid at Ease,
Whose Death has dropped the price of Bread & Cheese.
He Eat, he drank, he smoked, and then
He Eat, and drank, and smoked again.
So Modern Patriots, rightly understood,
Live to themselves, and die for Public Good.
* * * * *
Thin in beard, and thick in purse,
Never man beloved worse;
He went to the grave with many a curse:
The devil and he had both one nurse.
* * * * *
They were so one, that none could say
Which of them ruled, or whether did obey,
He ruled, because she would obey; and she,
In so obeying, ruled as well as he.
* * * * *
Good People draw near,
There is no need of a tear,
Merry L . . . is gone to his Bed;
I am placed here to tell,
Where now lies the shell,
If he had any soul it is fled.
Make the Bells ring aloud,
And be joyful the croud,
For Mirth was his favourite theme,
Which to Praise he turned Poet,
Its fit you should know it,
Since he has left nothing more than his name.
* * * * *
On an Ass (by the late late Dr. Jenner).
Beneath this hugh hillock here lies a poor creature,
So gentle, so easy, so harmless his nature;
On earth by kind Heav'n he surely was sent,
To teach erring mortals the road to content;
Whatever befel him, he bore his hard fate,
Nor envied the steed in his high pamper'd state;
Though homely his fare was, he'd never repine;
On a dock could he breakfast, on thistles could dine;
No matter how coarse or unsavoury his salad,
Content made the flavour suit well with his palate.
Now, Reader, depart, and, as onward you pass,
Reflect on the lesson you've heard from an Ass.
* * * * *
On a Henpecked Country Squire.
As father Adam first was fool'd,
A case that's still too common,
Here lies a man a woman rul'd,
The devil rul'd the woman.
* * * * *
On a Potter.
How frail is man--how short life's longest day!
Here lies the worthy Potter, turned to clay!
Whose forming hand, and whose reforming care,
Has left us full of flaws. Vile earthenware!
* * * * *
It was his usual custom in company when he told anything, to ask, d'ye
hear? and if any one said no, John would reply, no matter, I've said.
Death came to John
And whisper'd in his ear,
You must die John,
D'ye hear?
Quoth John to Death
The news is bad.
No matter, quoth Death,
I've said.
* * * * *
Punning Epitaph.
Cecil Clay, the counsellor of Chesterfield, caused this whimsical
allusion or pun upon his name to be put upon his grave-stone;--Two
cyphers of C. C. and underneath,
Sum quod fui, "I am what I was."
* * * * *
Oldys thus translates from Camden an epitaph upon a tippling red-nosed
ballad maker, of the time of Shakespeare:--
Dead drunk, here Elderton doth lie:
Dead as he is, he still is dry;
So of him it may well be said,
Here he, but not his thirst, is laid.
* * * * *
On a Juggler.
Death came to see thy tricks, and cut in twain
Thy thread. Why did'st not make it whole again?
* * * * *
To a Magistrate's Widow.
Her husband died, and while she tried
To live behind, could not, and died.
* * * * *
Epitaph on the Parson of a parish.
Come let us rejoice merry boys at his fall,
For egad, had he lived he'd a buried us all.
* * * * *
On a Baker.
Richard Fuller lies buried here,
Do not withhold the crystal tear,
For when he liv'd he daily fed
Woman and man and child with bread.
But now alas he's turned to dust,
As thou and I and all soon must,
And lies beneath this turf so green,
Where worms do daily feed on him.
* * * * *
An Original.
Here lies fast asleep, awake me who can,
The medley of passion and follies, a Man
Who sometimes lov'd licence and sometimes restraint,
Too much of the sinner, too little of saint;
From quarter to quarter I shifted my tack;
Gainst the evils of life a most notable quack;
But, alas! I soon found the defects of my skill,
And my nostrums in practice proved treacherous still;
From life's certain ills 'twas in vain to seek ease,
The remedy oft proved another disease;
What in rapture began often ended in sorrow,
And the pleasure to-day brought reflection to-morrow;
When each action was o'er and its errors were seen,
Then I viewed with surprise the strange thing I had been;
My body and mind were so oddly contrived,
That at each other's failing both parties conniv'd,
Imprudence of mind brought on sickness and pain,
The body diseas'd paid the debt back again.
Thus coupled together life's journey they pass'd,
Till they wrangled and jangled and parted at last;
Thus tired and weary, I've finished my course,
And glad it is bed time, and things are no worse.
* * * * *
On a Publican.
Thomas Thompson's buried here,
And what is more he's in his bier,
In life thy bier did thee surround,
And now with thee is in the ground.
* * * * *
On a Porter, who died suddenly under a load.
Pack'd up within these dark abodes,
Lies one in life inur'd to loads,
Which oft he carried 'tis well known,
Till Death pass'd by and threw him down.
When he that carried loads before,
Became a load which others bore
To this his inn, where, as they say,
They leave him till another day.
* * * * *
On a Publican.
A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King's Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till death my license took away
And put me in this house of clay,
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great and small.
* * * * *
On a Parish Clerk.
Here lies, within this tomb so calm,
Old Giles, pray sound his knell,
Who thought no song was like a psalm,
No music like a bell.
* * * * *
Here lies John Adams, who received a thump
Right in the forehead from the parish pump,
Which gave him his quietus in the end,
Tho' many doctors did his case attend.
* * * * *
On Mr. Cumming.
"Give me the best of men," said Death
To Nature--"quick, no humming,"
She sought the man who lies beneath,
And answered, "Death, he's Cumming."
* * * * *
On Sir Philip Sidney.
_England_ hath his body, for she it fed,
_Netherland_ his blood, in her defence shed;
The _Heavens_ hath his soul,
The _Arts_ have his fame,
The _Soldier_ his grief,
The _World_ his good name.
* * * * *
There is a touching sorrow conveyed in the following most ungrammatical
verses; evidently composed by one of the unlettered parents themselves:--
Beneath this stone his own dear child,
Whose gone from we
For ever more unto eternity;
Where we do hope that we shall go to he,
But him can never more come back to we.
* * * * *
On a Chemist.
Here lyeth, to digest, macerate, and amalgamate
With Clay,
In Balneo Arenae
Stratum super Stratum,
The Residuum, Terra damnata, and Caput
Mortuum
Of Boyle Godfry, Chemist
And M.D.
A man, who in his earthly Laboratory
Pursued various Processes to obtain
Areanum Vitae
Or the secret to live;
Also Aurum Vitae,
Or, the art of getting, rather than making Gold.
Alchemist like,
All his Labour and Profection,
As Mercury in the Fire evaporated in Fuomo
When he dissolv'd to his first Principles,
He departed as poor
As the last Drops of an Alembic;
For riches are not poured
On the Adepts of this world.
Though fond of News, he carefully avoided
The Fermentation, Effervescence,
And Decrepitation of this Life.
Full Seventy years his exalted Essence
Was Hermetically sealed in its Terene Mattras,
But the radical Moisture being exhausted,
The Elixir Vitae spent,
And exsiccated to a Cuticle,
He could not suspend longer in his Vehicle
But precipitated Gradatim
Per Campanam.
To his Original Dust.
May that light, brighter than Bolognian
Phosphorus, Preserve him from the
Athanor, Empyremna, &
Of the other
World.
Depurate him from the Taces and Scoria of
this;
Highly Rectify'd & Volatize
His AEtheral Spirit,
Bring it over the Helm of the Retort of this
Globe, place it in a proper Recipient,
Or Chrystalline Orb,
Among the elect of the Flowers of Benjamin,
Never to be Saturated,
Till the General Resuscitation,
Deflagration, Calcination,
And Sublimation of all Things.
* * * * *
On Mr. Partridge, who died in May.
What! kill a partridge in the month of May!
Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh?
* * * * *
On Du Bois,
Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel.
Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,
Carte and tierce were his life, and a carte was his death.
* * * * *
On Mr. Nightingale, Architect.
As the birds were the first of the architect kind,
And are still better builders than men,
What wonders may spring from a Nightingale's mind,
When St. Paul's was produced by a Wren.
* * * * *
On Mr. Churchill.
Says Tom to Richard, "Churchill's dead."
Says Richard, "Tom, you lie;
Old Rancour the report has spread,
But Genius cannot die."
* * * * *
On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist,
Who, several years before his death, lost one of his
nether limbs.
Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve,
Though his pickle was true Attic salt;
One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve,
Though his wit was known never to halt.
A most precious limb and a rare precious pate,
With one limb taken off for wise ends;
Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait,
Never failed to take off his best friends:
Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice,
Was his practice for pastime or pelf;
For which 'twere no wonder, if both should rejoice
At the day when he took off himself.
* * * * *
On James Straw, an Attorney.
Hic jacet Jacobus Straw,
Who forty years, Sir, followed the law,
And when he died,
The Devil cried,
"Jemmy, gie's your paw."
* * * * *
On Robert Sleath.
Who kept the turnpike at Worcester, and was noted for having once
demanded toll of George III., when his Majesty was going on a visit to
Bishop Hurd.
On Wednesday last, old Robert Sleath
Passed through the turnpike gate of death.
To him would death no toll abate,
Who stopped the King at Wor'ster gate.
* * * * *
On Ned Purdon.
Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery free
Who long was a bookseller's hack.
He led such a damnable life in this world
I don't think he'll ever come back.
* * * * *
On Stephen Remnant.
Here's a Remnant of life, and a Remnant of death,
Taken off both at once in a Remnant of breath.
To mortality this gives a happy release,
For what was the Remnant, proves now the whole piece.
* * * * *
A form of enigmatical epitaph is in Llandham Churchyard, Anglesea, and
has been frequently printed. From the _Cambrian Register_, 1795 (Vol. I.
p. 441), I learn that it was translated by Jo. Pulestone, Feb. 5, 1666.
The subject of it was Eva, daughter of Meredidd ap Rees ap Howel, of
Bodowyr, and written by Arthur Kynaston, of Pont y Byrsley, son of
Francis Kynaston.
Here lyes, by name, the world's mother,
By nature, my aunt, sister to my mother;
My grandmother, mother to my mother;
My great grandmother, mother to my grandmother;
My grandfather's daughter and his mother;
All which may rightly be,
Without the breach of consanguinity.
* * * * *
On Robert Pemberton.
Here lies _Robin_, but not _Robin Hood_;
Here lies _Robin_ that never did good;
Here lies _Robin_ by heaven forsak'n;
Here lies _Robin_--the devil may tak'n.
* * * * *
On a Stay Maker.
Alive, unnumber'd stays he made,
(He work'd industrious night and day;)
E'en dead he still pursues his trade,
For here _his bones will make a stay_.
* * * * *
Brevity of life.
Man's life's a vapour,
And full of woes;
He cuts a caper,
And down he goes.
* * * * *
By Boileau, the Poet.
Here lies my wife, and Heaven knows,
Not less for mine, than her repose!
* * * * *
Here lies poor Thomas, and his Wife,
Who led a pretty jarring life;
But all is ended--do you see?
He holds his tongue, and so does she.
* * * * *
If drugs and physic could but save
Us mortals from the dreary grave,
'Tis known that I took full enough
Of the apothecaries' stuff
To have prolonged life's busy feast
To a full century at least;
But spite of all the doctors' skill,
Of daily draught and nightly pill,
Reader, as sure as you're alive,
I was sent here at twenty-five.
* * * * *
Poor Jerry's Epitaph.
Here lies poor Jerry,
Who always seem'd merry,
But happiness needed.
He tried all he could
To be something good,
But never succeeded.
He married two wives:
The first good, but somewhat quaint;
The second very good--like a saint.
In peace may they rest.
And when they come to heaven,
May they all be forgiven
For marrying such a pest.
* * * * *
On three infants.
If you're disposed to weep for sinners dead,
About these children trouble not your head,
Reserve your grief for them of riper years,
They as has never sinned can't want no tears.
* * * * *
On a Drunkard.
The draught is drunk, poor Tip is dead.
He's top'd his last and reeled to bed.
* * * * *
On a Rum and Milk Drinker.
Rum and milk I had in store,
Till my poor belly could hold no more:
It caused me to be so fat,
My death was owing unto that.
* * * * *
On Joseph Crump, a Musician.
Once ruddy and plump,
But now a pale lump,
Beneath this safe hump,
Lies honest Joe Crump,
Who wish'd to his neighbours no evil,
Who, tho' by Death's thump
He's laid on his rump,
Yet up he shall jump
When he hears the last trump,
And triumph o'er Death and the Devil.
* * * * *
On Sir Isaac Newton.
Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night,
God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.
* * * * *
An Attorney.
Here lieth one who often lied before,
But now he lies here he lies no more.
* * * * *
On Peter Wilson,
Who was drowned.
Peter was in the ocean drown'd,
A careless, hapless creature!
And when his lifeless trunk was found,
It was become Salt Peter.
* * * * *
Here lies the body of an honest man.
And when he died he owed nobody nothing.
* * * * *
Good Friend for Jesus SAKE forbeare
To diGG T--E Dust encloAsed HERE.
Blest be T--E Man Y--T spares T--Es Stones
And curst be He Y--T moves my Bones.
* * * * *
Underneath this stone doth lie,
As much beauty as could die;
Which, when alive, did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.
* * * * *
To the memory of Mary Clow, &c.
A vertuous wife, a loving mother,
And one esteemed by all that knew her.
And to be short, to her praise, she was the woman that Solomon speaks
of in the xxxi. chapter of the book of Proverbs, from the 10th verse
to the end.
* * * * *
Old Epitaph.
As I was so are ye,
As I am You shall be,
That I had that I gave,
That I gave that I have,
Thus I end all my cost,
That I left that I lost.
* * * * *
Epitaph on a Bell Ringer.
Stephen & time now are even,
Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.
* * * * *
Here lies
Elizabeth Wise.
She died of Thunder sent from Heaven
In 1777.
* * * * *
On a Family cutt off by the Small Pox.
At once depriv'd of life, lies here,
A family to virtue dear.
Though far remov'd from regal state,
Their virtues made them truly great.
Lest one should feel the other's fall,
Death has, in kindness, seiz'd them all.
* * * * *
George Hardinge much indulged himself in versifying, and a curious
instance in illustration occurred at Presteigne, in the spring of 1816, a
few hours before his decease. An application was made by Messrs.
Tippens, addressed to the judge "if living, or his executors," for the
payment of a bill. The answer was penned by the Judge only three hours
prior to his death, and was as follows:--
"Dear Messrs. Tippens, what is fear'd by you,
Alas! the melancholy circumstance is true,
That I am dead; and, more afflicting still,
My legal assets cannot pay your bill.
To think of this, I am almost broken hearted,
Insolvent I, this earthly life departed;
Dear Messrs. T., I am yours without a farthing,
For executors and self,
George Hardinge."
* * * * *
The manner of her death was thus,
She was druv over by a Bus.
* * * * *
Here lies Martha wife of Hugh,
Born at St Ansell's, buried at Kew,
Children in wedlock they had five,
Three are dead & two are alive,
Those who are living had much rather
Die with the Mother than live with the Father.
* * * * *
"The Body
of
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Printer,
(like the cover of an old book,
its contents torn out,
and stripped of its lettering and gilding),
lies here, food for worms;
yet the work itself shall not be lost;
for it will, as he believed, appear once more
in a new and more beautiful edition,
corrected and amended
by
THE AUTHOR!"
* * * * *
Singular Epitaph.
Careless and thoughtless all my life,
Stranger to every source of strife,
And deeming each grave sage a fool,
The law of nature was my rule.
By which I learnt to duly measure
My portion of desire and pleasure.
'Tis strange that here I lie you see,
For death must have indulged a whim,
At any time t' have thought of me,
Who never once did think of him.
* * * * *
On Earle the boxer.
Here lies James Earle the Pugilist, who on the 11th of April 1788
gave in.
* * * * *
She lived genteely on a small income.
* * * * *
Epitaph on a Gamester.
Here lies a gamester, poor but willing,
Who left the room without a shilling,
Losing each stake, till he had thrown
His last, and lost the game to Death;
If Paradise his soul has won,
'Twas a rare stroke of luck i'faith!
* * * * *
On the death of Miss Eliza More, aged 14 years.
Here lies who never lied before,
And one who never will lie More,
To which there need be no more said,
Than More the pity she is dead,
For when alive she charmed us More
Than all the Mores just gone before.
* * * * *
On a Wife (by her Husband.)
Beneath this stone lies Katherine, my wife,
In death my comfort, and my plague through life.
Oh! liberty--but soft, I must not boast;
She'll haunt me else, by jingo, with her ghost!
* * * * *
"Here is a gentlewoman, who, if I may so speak of a gentlewoman departed,
appears to have thought by no means small beer of herself:"--
A good mother I have been,
Many troubles I have seen,
All my life I've done my best,
And so I hope my soul's at rest.
* * * * *
On the death of a most amiable and beautiful young lady, of the name of
Peach.
BY MR. BISSET.
DEATH long had wish'd within his reach,
So sweet, so delicate a PEACH:
He struck the Tree--the trunk lay mute;
But _Angels_ bore away the _Fruit_!
* * * * *
Here lies my poor wife,
Without bed or blanket,
But dead as a door nail,
God be thanked.
* * * * *
Epitaph on a violent Scold.
My spouse and I full many a year
Liv'd man and wife together,
I could no longer keep her here,
She's gone--the Lord knows whither.
Of tongue she was exceeding free,
I purpose not to flatter,
Of all the wives I e'er did see,
None sure like her could chatter.
Her body is disposed of well,
A comely grave doth hide her,
I'm sure her soul is not in hell,
For old Nick could ne'er abide her.
Which makes me guess she's gone aloft,
For in the last great thunder,
Methought I heard her well known voice
Rending the skies asunder.
* * * * *
On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep.
Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife,
Or, in one word, here lies a _scolding wife_;
Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut,
He durst not for his ears have touched the _slut_.
* * * * *
Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew,
If I said I regretted her--I should lie too.
* * * * *
On a Scold.
Here lies, thank God, a woman who
Quarrell'd and stormed her whole life through,
Tread gently o'er her mould'ring form,
Or else you'll raise another storm.
* * * * *
On a Wife (by her Husband).
Here lies my poor wife, much lamented,
She's happy, and I'm contented.
* * * * *
One was our thought, One life we fought,
One rest we both intended,
Our bodies have to sleepe one grave,
Our soules to God ascended.
* * * * *
Conjugal Epitaph.
Here rest my spouse, no pair through life,
So equal liv'd as we did;
Alike we shared perpetual strife,
Nor knew I rest till she did.
* * * * *
An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman.
Another version.
(From an old Book of Job.)
We lived one and twenty yeare,
Like man and wife together;
I could no longer have her heere,
She's gone, I know not whither.
If I could guesse, I doe professe,
(I speak it not to flatter)
Of all the women in the worlde,
I never would come at her.
Her body is bestowed well,
A handsome grave doth hide her,
And sure her soule is not in hell,
The fiend could ne'er abide her.
I think she mounted up on hie,
For in the last great thunder,
Mee thought I heard her voice on hie,
Rending the clouds in sunder.
* * * * *
Within this place a vertvous virgin lies,
Much like those virgins that were counted wise,
Her lamp of life by Death being now pvt ovt,
Her lamp of grace doth still shine rovnd abovt,
And thovgh her body here doth sleep in clay,
Yet is her sovl still watchfvl for that day,
When Christ the Bridegroom of her sovl shall come,
To take her with him to the wedding roome.
* * * * *
Amy Mitchell,
1724 aged 19.
Here lies a virgin cropt in youth,
A Xtian both in name and truth,
Forbear to mourn, she is not dead,
But gone to marry Christ her head.
* * * * *
On a Woman who had three Husbands.
Here lies the body of Mary Sextone,
Who pleased three men, and never vexed one,
That she can't say beneath the next stone.
* * * * *
Marianne S--.
Conjuge (i?) nunquam satis plorandae
Inane hoc, tamen ultimum,
Amoris consecrat testimonium,
Maritus, heu! superstes.
The above Epitaph, inscribed on a plain marble tablet in a village church
near Bath, is one of the few in which the Latin language has been
employed with the brief and profound pathos of ancient sepulchral
inscriptions.
* * * * *
Short was her life,
Longer will be her rest;
Christ call'd her home,
Because he thought it best.
For she was born to die,
To lay her body down,
And young she did fly,
Into the world unknown.
5 years & 9 months.
* * * * *
Here lies my wife in earthly mould,
Who when she lived did naught but scold.
Peace! wake her not for now she's still,
She _had_, but now _I_ have my will.
* * * * *
Epitaph written by Sarah Dobson, wife of John Dobson, to be put on her
tombstone after her decease:--