ON A MISER.

HERE lies one, who for medicines would not give
A little gold, and so his life he lost;
I fancy now he'd wish again to live,
Cou'd he but guess how much his funeral cost.

CUDDESDON, OXFORDSHIRE.
BY DR. LOWTH, Bishop of London,

ON HIS DAUGHTER.

Translated from the Latin.

DEAR as thou didst in modest worth excel, More dear than in a daughter's name-farewel! Farewel, dear Mary-but the hour is nigh, When, if I'm worthy, we shall meet on high: Then shall I say, triumphant from the tomb,. Come to thy father's arms, dear Mary,-come!

VIA LATINA, ROME.

TRAVELLER, be not inquisitive about my name, extraction, place of birth, or past life; consider only my present state. I am condemned to an everlasting silence, and nothing of me remains but a parcel of bones and ashes. I came from nothing, scarce ever existed, was at best an insignificant being, and am now entirely destitute of existence. Go your way, and do not upbraid me with my low condition ; yours will very soon be the same.

WINDHAM, NORFOLK.

UPON MR. NONE.

HERE lyes None, one worse than None for ever thought,

And because None of None to thee, O Christ, gives nought.

Written with Chalk on the Tomb-stone of an OLD MAID, who, a little before her death, declared her age to be but 53, though she was known to have been at least 60.

A STIFF-STARCH'D virgin of unblemish'd fame,
And spotless honour, Bridget Cole by name,
At length the death of all the righteous dies,
Aged but three-and-fifty-Here she LIES.

ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER.

ON THOMAS CHURCHYARD,

An old court poet, in the reign of Henry ye Eighth, author of a poem entitled the "Worthiness of Wales," and of another in praise of the first Paper Mill, erected in England. Wood gives a long account of the vicissitudes of this person.

COME, Alecto, and lend me thy torch,

To find a Churchyard in a church porch ;Poverty and poetry this tomb doth inclose, Therefore, good neighbours, be merry in prose, He died about the 11th of Elizabeth's reign, 1570.

ON A GENTLEMAN,

Whose name was EARTH.

STOP, gentle reader, and peruse this stone,
The friendly covering of my lifeless bone.
Earth was I brought into the spacious world,
And now to Mother Earth-again I'm hurl'd.
Being born mere Earth,-you may with justice say,
That which was Earth,-is fairly turn'd to clay.

ON A MAYOR OF EXETER.

HERE lies the body of Captain Tully,
Aged a hundred and nine years fully;
And threescore years before, as mayor,
The sword of this city he did bear.
Nine of his wives do by him lie,
So shall the tenth when she doth die.

ON DR. FULLER.

HERE lies Fuller's earth.

ON ANNE CARTER.

A COLLAR-MAKER'S WIFE.

HERE lies Anne Carter,

Wife of John Carter;

Who slipt her neck out of the collar;
Mensis Maii 6, Anno 1728.

IPSWICH, 1641.

ON JOE WARNER.

I, Warner once was to myself,
Both living, dying, dead, I was;
Now Warning am to thee:
See then thou warned be.

IN WALES.

HERE lies Imagination's fool:
Ye that know me pity me,

Ye that know me not, I congratulate.

ON MR. EDMOND PURDON,

An Author. By Goldsmith.

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
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 JOHN CRUKER,

A BELLOWS-MAKER, AT oxford.

HERE lyeth JOHN CRUKER, a maker of bellows,
A crafts-master, and a king of good fellows:
Yet when he came to the hour of his death,
He that made bellows, could not make breath.

ON JOHN TREFFRY, ESQ.

HERE in this chancel do I ly,

Known by the name of JOHN TREFFRY;
Being made and born for to dye,

So must thou, friend, as well as I:
Therefore good works be sure to try,
But chiefly love and charity,
And still on them with faith rely,
So be happy eternally.

Soli Deo gloria.

The above was put up during the life-time of this Mr. Treffry, who appears to have been a very whim. sical man. He had his grave dug, and lay down and swore in it, to shew the sexton a novelty, he said,—a man swearing in his own grave.

ON MRS. FORD.

HERE lies the wife of Maister Ford,
I hope her soul is with the Lord;
But if for Hell she's chang'd this life,
'Tis better so-than John Ford's wife.

ON A JOCKEY, AT NEWMARKET.
By Chiffney.

BENEATH the green sod, in this sport-loving place,
A jockey lies snug who has run a good race;
Till his wind being gone, and by death being crost
At last he's come in the wrong side of the post.