Suffer'd her at last to fall, Not from him, but from us all; And because she took delight Christ's poor members to invite, He fully now requites her love, And sends her angels from above, That did to heaven her soul convey, To solemnize his own birth-day.
WILLIAM WEST, COMEDIAN,
Late of the Norwich Company, who died June 17, 1773,
To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given To live; alas! one moment sets us even. Mark how impartial is the will of Heaven,
BY AARON HILL.
STAY, Bachelor, if you have wit, A wonder to behold!
Husband and wife in one dark pit
Lie close, and never scold!
Tread softly though, for fear she wakes.-- Hark! she begins already!
my head-my shoulder aches; "These sots can ne'er move steady." Ah! friend, with happy freedom blest! See! how my hopes miscarried! Not death itself can give you rest, Unless you die unmarried.
RIGHT HON. THOMAS WINNINGTON.
NEAR his paternal seat here buried lies The grave, the gay, the witty, and the wise; Form'd for all parts, alike in all he shin'd, Variously great, a genius unconfin'd! In converse bright, judicious in debate, In private amiable, in public great:
With all the statesman's knowledge, prudence, art, With Friendship's open, undesigning heart, The friend and heir here join their duty: one Erects the busto, one inscribes the stone.
Not that they hope from these his fame should live, That claims a longer date than they can give. False to their trusts, the mould'ring busts decay, And, soon effac'd, inscriptions wear away: But English annals shall their place supply, And, while they live, his name can never die.
JESU, that suffery'd bitter passion and peyn, Have mercy on my soul, John Chamberleyn, And my wyfs too,
The seyd John deceis'd, the sooth for to sey, In the monyth of Decembyr, the fowrth dey; The yere of our Lord God, reckoned ful evin, A thowsand fowr huudryd fowrscore and sevin.
WHOE'ER, like me, with boding anguish brings, His heart's whole treasure to fair Bristol's springs; Whoe'er, like me, to soothe disease and pain Shall pour these salutary streams in vain ; Condemn'd, like me, to hear the faint reply, To mark the flushing cheek, the sinking eye, From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death, And watch with dumb despair each short'ning breath; If chance direct him to this artless line,
Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine. Ordain'd to lose the partner of my breast,
Whose beauty warm'd me, and whose virtue blest; Form'd every tie that binds the soul to prove Her duty friendship, and that friendship love. But yet, rememb'ring that the parting sigh Ordain'd the just to slumber-not to die; The falling tear I check'd, I kiss'd the rod, And not to earth resigned her—but to God.
READER beware, immoderate love of pelf, Here lies the worst of thieves-who robb'd himself.
ON JEAN ANDERSON, 1770.
> PRAISES on tombs are vainly spent: A good name is a monument.
BENEATH this stone one's dust is laid, Who drank his passing-cup and reel'd to bed; Death reach'd the bowl, and this prescription gave, "Dose now thy senses sober in the grave." Life paid the present shot; but oh! the fears, When morn awakes him to his long arrears; Charg'd with the revels of each former day, For there's a dreadful reck'ning still to pay.
ON THOMAS HOBBES,
One of the Clerks of the King's Bench-in which it is observed, that he has one solicitor in Heaven, which is Christ, but that there are very few there besides.
ON KING CHARLES THE FIRST.
Written by the Duke of Montrose, with the Point of his Sword.
GREAT! good! and just! Could I but rate My griefs, and thy too rigid fate, I'd weep the world to such a strain,
As it should deluge once again :
But since thy loud-tongu'd blood demands supplies, More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes, I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpets' sounds, And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds.
IN THE CATHEDRAL CHURCH-YÄRD, DURHAM.
ON ROBERT DODSLEY,
An eminent Bookseller.
BY JOSEPH SPENCE.
you have any respect
For uncommon industry and merit, Regard this place!
In which are interred the remains of MR. ROBERT DODSLEY,
Who, as an author, rais'd himself Much above what could have been expected. From one in his rank of life: And without a learned education. And who, as a man, was scarce Exceeded by any, in integrity of heart And purity of manners and conversation. He left this life for a better, September 23d, 1764, In the 61st year of his age.
IN CHATHAM CHURCH-YARD.
ON MRS. ANN FARLAM,
Who died by the bite of her favourite Lap Dog. DEATH, the last end of all, is fix'd, is sure, But manifold the means that end procure. My little favourite cur, my guiltless friend, Thy tooth with frenzy struck, induc'd my end. Be ready, mortals, for the solemn call; No matter what the means by which you fall.
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