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AT BOSTON, IN NEW ENGLAND Written by Dr. Benjamin Franklin, on his Parents.

JOSIAH FRANKLIN,

And

ABIAH his Wife,

Lie here interred.

They lived lovingly together in wedlock
Fifty-five years;

And without an estate, or any gainful employment,
By constant labour and honest industry,
With God's blessing,

Maintained a large family comfortably, And brought up thirteen children and seven grandchildren reputably.

From this instance, reader,

Be encouraged to diligence in thy calling,
And distrust not Providence.

He was a pious and prudent a man,
She a discreet and virtuous Woman.
Their youngest son,

In filial regard to their memory,
Places this stone.

J. F. born 1655, died 1744.
A. F. born 1667, died 1752,

Written by Dr. B. Franklin for himself.

THE BODY

af

Benjamin Franklin, Printer,
(Like the cover of an old book
Its contents torn out,

And stript 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.

On Mr. Havard, Comedian.

"An honest Man's the nollest work of God !” Havard from sorrow rests, beneath this stone: An honest man,-belov'd as soon as known; Howe'er defective in the mimic art, In real life he justly play'd his part!

The noblest character he acted well,

And heaven applauded-when the curtain fell.

ON SIR HORATIO PALAVICINI,

Who was Collector of the Pope's Tuxes in Eng land, in the Reign of Queen Mary, on whose death, and the charge of Religion that ensued, he took the liberty of keeping the money himself, and settling in England, he built a House at Little Shelford, in Cambridgeshire; and was also possessor of the Estate and House at Babraham in the same County.

Ob. July 6, 1600;

Here lies Horatio Palavazene,

Who robb'd the Pope to lend the Queene.
He was a thief: a thief! thou lyest ;

For whie? he robb'd but Antichrist.

Him death wyth besome swept from Babram,
Into the bosome of oulde Abraham :
But then came Hercules with his club,
And struck him down to Belzebub..

IN WREXHAM CHURCH YARD..

Here lies John Shore,

I say no more;

Who was alive

In Sixty-five, October 9th.

Mr. Pennant says, that this Epitaph "informs you, that the deceased had lived, but not that he died." But surely he would not have laid there, unless he had been dead.

In Wrexham Church

Is a fine painting of the institution of the Sacrament. It was brought from Rome, and given to the church by ELIHU YALE, Esq a native of America, who went on speculation to the East Indies. Of this person it is recorded by one of the travellers in India, that he ordered his groom to be hanged for having ridden his horse on a journey of two or three days for the sake of his health: he was tried for this crime in the English courts, and escaped with a high pecuniary punishment. He died in London in the year 1721; but was interred in this church-yard with the following inscription on his tomb.----Bingley's North Wales.

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ELIHU YALE, Esa.

Who died 22d July, 1721.

Born in America, in Europe bred,
In Africa travell'd, and in Asia wed,

Where long he liv'd and thriv'd, at London dead.
Much good, some ill, he did; so hope all's even,
And that his soul thro' mercy's gone to heaven.
You that survive, and read, take care
For this most certain exit to prepare;
For only the actions of the just

Shall sweet and blossom in the dust.

This gentleman was remarkable for having introduced Auetions into this country; the firs of which was about the year 1700, of some goods brought home by him from Fort George, in the East Indies, of which place he had been Governor.

In Wrexham Church Yard.

Here lies interr'd beneath these stones,
The beard, the flesh, and eke the bones,
Of Wrexham Clerk, old David Jones.

1668.

In Wrexham Church Yard.

Here lies old Hare, worn out with care,

Who whilom toll'd the bell,

Could dig a grave, or set a stave,
And say Amen full well.

For sacred song, he'd Sternhold's tongue,

And Hopkins' eke also;

With cough and hem, he stood by them,

As far as lungs would go. Many a feast for worms he drest,

Himself then wanting bread;

But lo! he's gone, with skin and bone,
To starve them now he's dead.
Here take his spade, and use his trade,
Since he is out of breath;

Cover the bones of him, who once
Wrought journey-work for death.

YORK CATHEDRAL.

O merciful Jesu, that browght man sowl from hell, Have merci on the soul of Jane Belle.

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