To the memory of that ancient servant to the city, with his pen, in divers employments, especially the Survey of London,

MASTER ANTHONY MUNDAY,

CITIZEN AND DRAPER OF LONDON.

He that hath many an ancient tombstone read,
Th' labour seeming more among the dead
To live, than with the living-that survey'd
Abstruse antiquities, and o'er them laid
Such vive and beauteous colours with his pen ;
That, spite of time, those old are new again,
Under this marble lies interr'd; his tomb
Claiming (as worthily it may) this room.
Among those many monuments his quill
Has so revived, helping now to fill

A place (with those) in his survey, in which
He has a monument, more fair, more rich

Than polish'd stones could make him, where he lies,

Though dead, still living, and in that ne'er dies.

ON JOVIANUS PONTANUS,

Who died in 1505.

WHEN living I prepared this house to rest in after death. I beseech thee injure not him who never injured any. I am Jovianus Pontanus, whom honest men loved, and kings and lords esteemed.You know who I am, or rather who I was: but I, good stranger, cannot know thee in this darkness: pray heaven, thou may'st know thyself. Farewell.

In the Subterranean Chapel, in the Church of St. Maria Scala Cæli, Rome, is a Latin Inscription, in English thus:

"HERE rest the bodies of St. Zeno, and his twelve thousand two hundred soldiers."

These are the twelve thousand two hundred Christians (precisely) who remained of the forty thousand that had been employed for the space of seven years, in building Dioclesian's baths; and who, after the finishing of that immense work, received no other recompence for their toil and labour than a cruel death, which they suffered by the tyrant's order, on the same spot where this church now stands.

FERRARA CATHEDRAL,

ON GYRALDUS LILIUS.

PASSENGER, what do you stop at? You see here the tomb of Gyraldus Lilius, who experienced both pages of Fortune's book, but profited only by the worst, by the help of Apollo, making no use of the other. More to know concerns neither him nor thee: be gone about your business. Erected by Lilius Gregorius Gyraldus, mindful of Mortality, in year of our Lord 1550, and of his age 72.

the

ON VOSSIUS.

On this tomb weep Piety and Virtue; on this tomb Learning is grown marble with grief. Envious Death smiles; and so does Vossius, who has conquered Death by his pen and his wit.

ON A FEMALE DRUNKARD.

ARRESTED by death,
Lies a female beneath,

Who, when living, ne'er flinch'd from her glass; And at the last day,`

The first words she will say

Are, drink

my boys! let the toast pass.

Nay, weep not my friend,
Lament not her end,

Soon or late we all come to it must;
Let malice and spleen,

Mourn alone o'er their queen,

For here she lies mould'ring to dust.

ON JENKIN DASHES.

HERE lies the collier Jenkin Dashes,

By whom death nothing gain'd, he swore; For living he was dust and ashes,

And dead he was no more.

IN A CHURCH-YARD IN WILTSHIRE.

BENEATH this steane lies our dear child, who's gone from We,

For evermore, unto Eternity;

Where Us do hope, that We shall go to He,
But Him can ne'er go back again to We.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

ON MR. GRAY.

By Mr. Mason.

No more the Grecian Muse unrivall'd reigns, `
To Britain let the nations homage pay!

She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains,
A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of GRAY.

LINES ON THE SAME.

'Tis done, tis done-the iron hand of pain,
With ruthless fury and corrosive force,
Racks ev'ry joint, and seizes every vein;
He sinks, he groans, he falls a lifeless corse.

Thus fades the flow'r, nipp'd by the frozen gale, Tho' once so sweet, so lovely to the eye; Thus the tall oaks, when boist'rous storms assail, Torn from the earth, a mighty ruin lie.

Ye sacred sisters of the plaintive verse,
Now let the stream of fond affection flow;
O pay your tribute o'er the slow-drawn hearse,
With all the manly dignity of woe.

Oft when the curfew tolls its parting knell, With solemn pause yon church-yard's gloom

survey,

While sorrow's sighs, and tears of pity tell,

How dearest friends on every side decay.

BECKENHAM, KENT.

ON MRS. CLARKE, OF EPSOM,

WHO DIED APRil 27, 1757.

By Gray.

Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps:
A heart, within whose sacred cell,
The peaceful virtues lov'd to dwell.
Affection warm, and Faith sincere,
And soft Humanity were there.
In agony, in death resign'd,
She felt the wound she left behind.
Her infant image here below
Sits smiling on a father's woe:

Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh; an unavailing tear;
Till time shall ev'ry grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.

ON THE EARL OF KILDARE.

WHO kill'd Kildare? Who dar'd Kildare to kill? Death kill'd Kildare, who dare kill whom he will.

ON WILLIAM SAVILLE.

No epitaph need make the just man fam'd ;
The good are prais'd when they are only nam'd.