HERE lyes the body of SIR JOHN Calf,
Who was thrice lord mayor of this city,
Honour! Honour! Honour!
The following Lines were written by a Gentleman who read the above Epitaph.
O WRETCHED Death, more subtle than a Fox,
Could'st thou not let this Calf become an Ox,
That he might brouse amongst the briars and thorns,
And wear, among his brethren,
ON A DOCTOR OF DIVINITY.
He dy'd of a quinsy,
And was bury'd at Brinsy.
ISLINGTON CHURCH-YARD.
As those we love decay, we die in part,
String after string is sever'd from the heart;
Till loosen'd life, at last but breathing clay,
Without one pang is glad to flee away;
Unhappy he! who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low,
Dragg'd lingering on from partial death to death,
Till dying, all he can resign is breath.
She was NOTT these,
And yet she was all four.
Nott born, Nott died, Nott christen'd, Nott begot,
Lo here she lies that was, and that was Nott;
She died, was born, baptiz'd, and, what is more,
Was in her life-time honest, NoTT a whore :
Reader, behold a wonder rarely wrought,
That whilst thou seem'st to read, thou readest Nott.
HERE lies old JOHN HILDIBROAD,
Have mercy upon him GooD GOD;
As he would do, if he was GOD,
And thou wert old JOHN HILDIBROAD.
UNDER this marble fair
Lies the body, entomb'd, of GERVASE AIRE
He dy'd not of an ague fit,
Nor surfeited by too much wit:
Methinks this was a wond'rous death, ́
That AIRE should die for want of breath:
PARENTS and friends weep not for me,
Tho' I was drowned in the sea;
It was God's will it should be so-
Some way or other all must go,
Álas! no more could I survive,
For I am dead, and not alive:
But thou in time no longer shall survive,
But be as dead as any man alive.
ON THOMAS SOUTHERN.
PRAIS'D by the grandsires of the present age,
Shall SOUTHERN pass, un-noted, off the stage!
Who, more than half a century ago,
Caus'd from each eye the tender tear to flow?
Does not his death one grateful drop demand,
In works of wit the NESTOR of our land?
SOUTHERN WAS DRYDEN's friend: him genius warm'd,
When OTWAY wrote, and BETTERTON perform'd :
He knew poor NAT,* while regular his fire,
Was CONGREVE's pattern e'er he rais'd desire:
Belong'd to CHARLES's age, when wit ran high,
And liv'd so long but to behold it die.
ON A NOBLEMAN.
I DREAMT that, bury'd in my fellow clay,
Close by a common beggar's side I lay ;
And as so mean a neighbour shock'd my pride,
Thus (like a corpse of quality) I cry'd:
❝ Away,
thou scoundrel! henceforth touch me not,
"More manners learn, and at a distance rot."
"Thou scoundrel!" in a louder tone, cry'd he,
"Proud lump of dirt, I scorn thy words and thee,
"We're equal now, I'll not an inch resign:
"This is my dunghill, and the next is thine.”
ON A GENTLEMAN,
Who had the happiness of being danced to death by a Young Lady.
HERE rests a wearied youth, by death reliev'd,
Who, had he rested sooner, still had liv’d.
Stung by a fair tarantula, he hay'd,
He figur'd in, he caper'd, frisk'd-and stray'd
From the gay ball to the Elysian shade.
Compute by dances, and fourscore he pass'd,
Man's utmost term; Moll Peatly* was his last.
Yet think not, Reader, that he dares to blame
The beauteous cause from whence his ruin came:
Too well the nymph had by experience found
Her eyes as fatal, tho' more slow the wound;
She way'd the triumph of a longer fight,
And, from mere pity, kill'd him in one night.
* A dance so called.
ON SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT.
HERE lies the subject of immortal praise,
Who did from PHOEBUS' hand receive his bays:
Admir'd by all, envied alone by those
Who for his glories made themselves his foes:
Such were his virtues, that they could command
A general applause from ev'ry hand:
His exit then this on record shall have,
A clap did usher D'Avenant to his grave.
GLASTONBURY, SOMERSETSHIRE.
ON CAPTAIN DYER.
WHOм neither sword nor gun in warr
Could slay, in peace a cough did marr;
'Gainst rebels he, and lust and sin,
Fought the good fight, died life to win.
Done by Alexander, his son.
YE rich and great, who bribe the poet's lays,
To deck the sculptur'd tomb with fulsome praise;
Who cause sublime the pompous line to flow,
For fancy'd virtue, and for fancy'd woe:
Dare not to scoff at this unpolish'd stone,
(Rough as the honest verse that's grav'd thereon)
Which marks the humble spot, where real worth
Now yields her poor remains to Mother Earth.
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