The

poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame,

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name?

Reader attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly pole,

In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious, self controul

Is wisdom's root,

ON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD,

Here lies wise and valiant dust,
Huddled up 'twixt fit and just:
Strafford, who was hurried hence
'Twixt treason and convenience.
He spent his time here in a mist,
A Papist, yet a Calvinist ;
His Prince's nearest joy and grief:
He had, yet wanted, all relief:
The prop and ruin of the state,
The people's violent love and hate.
One in extremes lov'd and abhor'd;
Riddles lie here, and in a word,

Here lies blood, and let it lie
Speechless still, and never cry.

King Charles I. sent a letter to Strafford during his confinement, in which he assured him, upon the word of a king, that he should not suffer in life, honour, or fortune.-Notwithstanding this secretary Carleton, waited on him, a short time after, to inform him, that the king had granted a commission to four lords to pass the bill of attainder; it was with some difficulty that he would believe the fatal tidings; but on being assured of their certainty, he rose up from his chair with marks of astonishment and horror, lifted up his eyes to heaven, laid his hand on his breast, and exclaimed, "Put not your trust in princes, nor in the sons of men, for in them there is no salvation."

On the 12th of May, 1641, he was brought from the tower of London (where he had been a prisoner near six months) to the scaffold on Tower-hill, where with a composed and undaunted courage, he told the people, he was come thither to satisfy them with his head; but that he much feared, the reformation which was begun in blood, would not prove so fortunate to the kingdom as they expected, and he wished: and after great expressions of his devotion to the church of England, and the Protestant religion established by law, and professed in that church; of his loyalty to the king; and affection to the peace and welfare of the kingdom; with great tranquility of mind. he delivered his head to the block; where it was severed from his body at a blow. Many of the standers-by, who had not been over charitable to him in his life time, being much affected with the courage and christianity of his death. His body was carried to Wentworth-woodhouse, and there buried. His son William was restored by Charles II. to all his father's honours, and at the cast end of the church of Wentworth-woodhouse erected a

monument for his father, with his statue kneeling, and under it on a black marble, this inscription in gold letters:

THOMAS WENTWORTH,

Earl of Strafford, viscount Wentworth, baron Wentworth of Wentworth-woodhouse, Newmarch, Oversley, and Raby, lord lieutenant of Ireland,

Lord president of the north of England; And knight of the most noble order of the garter, His birth was upon Good Friday,

The 13th of April, 1593,

His death

upon the 12th of May, 1641;

His soul through the mercy of God lives in eternal

bliss,

And his memory

Will never die in these kingdoms.

ON LADY LUCY MEYRICK,

Who died in Child-birth.

Beneath this humble stone now rests inshrin'd,
Alas? what once inclos'd the purest mind.
Yet, whilst she leaves us for her kindred skies,
See from the 'xpiring flame a Phoenix rise!
By the same hand, severely kind, were given
To us a cherub, and a saint to heaven.

Adieu, blest shade, alas too early fled !
Who knew thee living, but laments thee dead?
A soul so calm, so free from every stain,
So try'd by torture, and unmov'd by pain!

Without a groan with agonies she strove ;

Heaven, wondering, snatch'd her to the joys above.

ON THE MARQUIS OF WINCHELSEA.

He who in pious times undaunted stood,
And 'midst rebellion dar'd be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose suff'ring more
Confirm'd the cause for which he fought before;
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,
For what his earthly could not recompence:
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear,
Or if this happen, learn true honour here.

On a Woman who had Three Husbands.

Here lies the body of Mary Sextone,

Who pleas'd three men and never vex'd one:
This she can't say beneath the next stone.

On a Parson of a Country Parish.

Come, let us rejoice, merry boys, at his fall,
For 'egad, had he liv'd, he'd have buried us all,

}

At Bath Abbey, Somersetshire.

Here lies the body of Mary, third daughter of Richard Frampton, of Moreton, in Dorsetshire, Esq. and of Jane his wife, sole daughter of Sir Francis Cottington, of Founthill in Wilts, who was born July 1st, 1676-7, and died after seven weeks sick

ness.

This monument was erected by Catharine Frampton, her second sister, and executrix, in testimony of her grief, affection, and gratitude,

Below this marble monument is laid,

All that heav'n wants of this celestial maid ;
Preserve, O sacred tomb, thy trust confin'd,
The mold was made on purpose for the mind;
And she would lose, if at the latter day,
One atom could be mixt of other clay;

Such were the features of her heav'nly face:
Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace;
So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the soul;
Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd,
And like a picture, shone in glass unneal'd:
Or like the sun eclips'd with shaded light,
Too piercing else to be sustain'd by sight;
Each thought was visible that roll'd within,
As thro' a chrystall'd case the figur'd hours are seen ;
And heav'n did this transparent veil provide,

Because she had no guilty thought to hide ;