ON PRINCE HENRY,
Son of James I.
READER, wonder thinke it none,
Though I speake, and am a stone.
Here is shrinde coelestiall dust,
And i keepe it but in trust.
Should I not my treasure tell,
Wonder then you might as well,
How this stone could choose but breake,
If it had not learnt to speake.
Hence amaz'd, and aske not me,
Whose these sacred ashes be.
Purposely it is concealed,
For if that should be revealed,
All that reade would by and by
Melt themselves to teares and dy.
Within this marble casket lies
A matchlesse jewel of rich prize,
Whom nature in the world's disdain
But shewed, and then put up again.
ON THE SAME.
By Giles Fletcher.
Ir wise, amaz'd! depart this holy grave,
Nor these new ashes ask what names they have ;
The graver in concealing them was wise,
For, whoso knows, straight melts in tears, and dies.
I have no vein in verse, but if I could
Distil on every word a pearl, I would.
Our sorrows pearl drops, not from pens; but
Whilst other Muses write, mine only cryes.
ON DR. SHERLOCK,
HERE lyes, within this holy place,
(The LORD have mercy on him!)
The Weesel, in a wooden case,
Exempt from human plagues, unless
You lay his wife beside him.
Some people think, if this were done,
Tho' dead, he would be ready
To rise before his time, and run
The LORD knows where, to shun
That termagant, his lady.
Since he is gone, 'tis hard that she
Should be so long deserted,
Why, Death, shouldst thou so partial be,
Since all good people do agree
'Tis pity they were parted?
Pray bid her, when she comes, not prate,
But hold her teazing nonsense:
For if the Weesel smell a rat,
He'll fly his wife, I'll tell you that,
As he did once his conscience.
ON THOMAS STRONG, Esq.
In action prudent, and in word sincere,
In friendship faithful, and in honour clear;
Thro' life's vain scenes, the same in every part,
A steady judgment, and an honest heart.
Thou vaunt'st no honours-all thy boast, a mind
As infants guiltless, and as angels kind.
HERE cool the ashes of
MULCIBER GRIM,
Låte of this Parish, Blacksmith.
He was born in Sea-coal Lane,
And bred at Hammersmith.
From his youth up he was much addicted
To vices,
And was often guilty of forgery.
Having some talents for irony, he thereby
Produced many heats in his neighbourhood,
Which he usually increased, by blowing up
The coals.
This rendered him so unpopular, that when
He found it necessary to adopt cooling measures,
His conduct was generally accompanied
With a hiss.
Tho' he sometimes proved a warm friend,
Yet, when his interest was concerned,
He made it a constant rule to strike while
The iron was hot,
Regardless of the injury he might do thereby ;
And when he had any matter of moment
Upon the anvil, he seldom failed to turn it
To his own advantage.
Among numberless instances that might be given
Of the cruelty of his disposition,
It need only be mention'd, that
He was the means of hanging many of the innocent
Family of the Bells,
Under the idle pretence of keeping them
From jangling.
And put great number of the hearts of Steel
Into the hottest flames;
Merely, as he declar'd, to soften the obduracy
Of their tempers.
At length, after passing a long life in the
Commission of these black actions,
His fire being exhausted, and his bellows
Worn out,
He filed off to that place where only
The fervid ordeal of his own forge
Can be exceeded,
Declaring, with his last puff,
That Man is born to trouble as the
66 Sparks fly upwards.”
HERE rests a form, once like a man's
In colour, shape, and feature;
Whose measures, promises, and plans,
Were guided by good-nature.
Although no seaman, still on board;
No traveller, yet nimble;
His table was with cabbage stor'd
And beef, earn'd by his thimble.
Though fashion press'd his daily cares,
From Saturday till Monday;
In a new suit he said his pray'rs,
At church, sometimes, on Sunday.
But Death, that nothing human spares,
In petticoats or breeches,
At last stole on him unawares,
And snipt his vital stitches!
ON SHENSTONE.
READER, if genius, taste refin'd,
A native elegance of mind;
If virtue, science, manly sense,
If wit that never gave offence,
The clearest head, the tenderest heart,
In thy esteem e'er claim'd a part,
Ah! smite thy breast and drop a tear,
For know thy Shenstone's dust lies here.
ON A YOUNG LADY.
FOR her each gentle bosom grieves;
'Tis not the turf alone that heaves:
Pity and Love her loss deplore,
Their fav'rite child can fall no more;
And see the woodbine loves to stray
Around the sod that clasps her clay;
The primrose with the violet vies,
To deck the grave where beauty lies.
Here Melancholy, lonely maid!
Shall oft the live-long night be laid;
And when the morning light appears,
Revive the verdure-with her tears.
HERE lies my poor wife, without bed or blanket, But dead as a door-nail, God be thanked.
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