Herefordshire.

Christ our Saviour is above,And him we hope to see—And all our friends that are behindWill soon come after we.

This Stonewas erected by theBrethrenof Lodgecxi.ofFree and acceptedMasons,As a token of respectfor their departedBrother,Jonathan Triggs,who received aSummonsFrom the Great ArchitectOf the Universe,At the hour of High Twelve,on the 24 day of October.A.L. 5819.A.D. 1819.Aged 38 years.

On a Loving Couple.

Of life he had the better slice,They lived at once, and died at twice,

A virtuous woman is 5s.0d.[48]to her husband.

Here a lovely youth doth lie,Which by accident did die;His precious breath was forced to yield,For by a waggon he was killed!

Alas! no more I could survive,For I is dead and not alive;And thou and time no longer shalt survive,But be as dead as any man alive.

That which a Being was—what is it? ShowThat Being which it was, it is not now;To be what ’tis, is not to be, you see,—That which now is not, shall a Being be.

Hic jacet Tom Shorthose,—Sine tomba, sine sheet, sine riches;Quid vixit,—sine gowne,Sine cloake, sine shirt, sine breeches.

The Dame, who lies interred within this tomb,Had Rachel’s charms, and Leah’s fruitful womb,Ruth’s filial love, and Lydia’s faithful heart,Martha’s just care, and Mary’s better part.

A comparison of the virtues of the deceased and those of Scripture characters is found on a monument of Sir Charles Cæsar at Bennington, Herts:—

Nathaniel

Daniel

Jonathan

Uzzita

Josephus

Simplicitate

Toro

Pectore

Prole

Thoro

Beneath this stone, where now your eye you fix,Ann Harris lies, who died in sixty-six;John Harris after her his exit madeIn eighty-two, and now is with her laid.

“Sacred to the memory of Miss Martha Gwynn,Who was so very pure within,She burst the outer shell of sin,And hatchedherself a cherubim.”

Captain Henry Graves, died 17th Aug. 1702,Aged 52 years.

Here, in one Grave, more than one Grave lies—Envious Death at last hath gained his prize;No pills or potions could make Death tarry,Resolved he was to fetch away Old Harry.Ye foolish doctors, could you all miscarry?Great were his actions on the boisterous waves,Resistless seas could never conquer Graves.Ah! Colchester, lament his overthow,Unhappily, you lost him at a blow;Each marine hero for him shed a tear,St. Margaret’s, too, in this must have a share.

woman.“Grieve not for me, my husband dear,I am not dead, but sleepeth here;With patience wait, prepare to die,And in a short time you’ll come to I.”man.“I am not grieved, my dearest life;Sleep on,—I have got another wife;Therefore, I cannot come to thee,For I must go and live with she.”

woman.

“Grieve not for me, my husband dear,I am not dead, but sleepeth here;With patience wait, prepare to die,And in a short time you’ll come to I.”

man.

“I am not grieved, my dearest life;Sleep on,—I have got another wife;Therefore, I cannot come to thee,For I must go and live with she.”

John Robinson.

Death parts the dearest Lovers for awhile,And makes them mourn, who only used to smile,But after Death our unmixt loves shall tieEternal knots betwixt my dear and I.

On a Wrestler.

Here lyes the Conqueror conquered,Valient as ever England bred;Whom neither art, nor steel, nor strength,Could e’er subdue, till death at lengthThrew him on his back, and here he lyes,In hopes hereafter to arise.

Here lieth the body of Peter Isnel (30 years clerk of this parish.)He lived respected as a pious and mirthful man, and died on his way to church, to assist at a wedding, on the 31st day of March, 1811, aged 70 years. The inhabitants of Crayford have raised this stone to his cheerful memory, and as a tribute to his long and faithful service.The life of this clerk was just three score and ten,Nearly half of which time he had sung outAmen!In his youth he was married, like other young men,But his wife died one day, so he chantedAmen!A second he took—she departed—what then?He married and buried a third withAmen;Thus, his joys and his sorrows were treble, but thenHis voice was deep bass as he sung outAmen!On the horn he could blow as well as most men,So his horn was exalted in blowingAmen;But he lost all his wind after three score and ten,And now, with three wives, he waits, till againThe trumpet shall rouse him to sing outAmen!

Here lieth the body of Peter Isnel (30 years clerk of this parish.)

He lived respected as a pious and mirthful man, and died on his way to church, to assist at a wedding, on the 31st day of March, 1811, aged 70 years. The inhabitants of Crayford have raised this stone to his cheerful memory, and as a tribute to his long and faithful service.

The life of this clerk was just three score and ten,Nearly half of which time he had sung outAmen!In his youth he was married, like other young men,But his wife died one day, so he chantedAmen!A second he took—she departed—what then?He married and buried a third withAmen;Thus, his joys and his sorrows were treble, but thenHis voice was deep bass as he sung outAmen!On the horn he could blow as well as most men,So his horn was exalted in blowingAmen;But he lost all his wind after three score and ten,And now, with three wives, he waits, till againThe trumpet shall rouse him to sing outAmen!

Palmers al our faders were,—I, a Palmer, lived here,And travylled till, worne with age,I endyd this world’s pylgrymageOn the blyst Assention-day,In the cheerful month of May,A thousand with foure hundryd seven,And took my jorney hense to Heven!

To Thomas, son of Thomas Danson, late a Preacherin this town. Born Oct. 23, 1668; died Oct. 23, 1674.

Upon October’s three and twentieth dayThe world began, (as learned Annals say,)That was this child’s birthday, on which he died,The world’s end may in his be typified:Oh! happy little world, whose work is doneBefore the greater, and his rest begun.

Several years since, an inhabitant of Woolwich died, leaving a testamentary order that his tombstone should be inscribed with the well-known lines:—

Youthful reader, passing by,As you are now, so once was I,As I am now, so you must be,Therefore prepare to follow me.

The widow of the deceased, who did not honour her lord more than the ordinary run of wives, obeyed her late husband’s injunctions, but added a postscript of her own composition—

To follow you I am not content,Until I know which way you went.

On Mrs. Lee and her son Tom.

In her life she did her best,Now, I hope her soul’s at rest;Also her son Tom lies at her feet,He liv’d till he made both ends meet.

Sixteen years a Maiden,One twelve Months a Wife,One half hour a Mother,And then I lost my Life.

Though young she was,Her youth could not withstand,Nor her protect from Death’sImpartial hand.Like a cobweb, be we e’er so gay,And death a broom,That sweeps us all away.

“Stop ringers all and cast an eye,You in your glory, so once was I,What I have been, as you may see,Which now is in the belfree.”

“God takes the good too good on earth to stay,And leaves the bad too bad to take away.”

The person was very aged on whose tomb-stone the above was written!

In the village churchyard, near the Castle, is a rather singular inscription upon a gravestone, which was put up by the deceased during his life-time; and when first placed there, had blanks, for inserting his age and the time of his death. These blanks have long since been filled up, and the whole now reads as follows:—

“In memory of James Barham, of this parish, who departed this life Jan. 14, 1818, aged 93 years; and who from the year 1774, to the year 1804, rung, in Kent and elsewhere, 112 peals, not less than 5,040 changes in each peal, & called bobs, &c. for most of the peals; & April 7th & 8th, 1761, assisted in ringing 40,320 bob-majors on Leeds-bells, in 27 hours.”

God gave me at Kinardington in Kent,My native breath, which now alas is spent,My parents gave me Tylden Smith for name,I to the Park farm in this Parish came;And there for many ling’ring years did dwell,Whilst my good neighbours did respect me well.But now my friends, I go by Nature’s call,In humble hopes my crimes will measure small.Years following years steal something every day,And lastly steal us from ourselves away.Life’s span forbids us to extend our cares,And stretch our hopes beyond our fleeting years.Mary Farminger, my wife, from East Marsh place,Lies mouldering here like me, in hopes of grace.

The following Epitaph is to be found in the parish church of Ightham, erected to Mrs. Selby of the Mote House, Ightham, who was a beautiful worker of Tapestry, whose death is said to have been caused from her pricking her finger when working one Sunday. There is a marble figure of her, holding a steel needle in her hand, and underneath is the following inscription:—

She was a Dorcas,Whose Curious needle turned the abused stageOf this lov’d world, into the goldenage,Whose pen of steele, and silken inck unroll’dThe acts of Jonah in records of gold,Whose art disclosed that Plot, which had it taken,Rome had tryumphed, and Britains wall had shaken.She WasIn heart a Lydia, and in tongue a Hanna,In zeale a Ruth, in wedlock a Susanna,Prudently simple, providently wary,To the world a Martha, and to Heaven a Mary.Died 1641

Here lyeth the Body of Mary the daughter of WmMaiss & Mary his Wife, who died Sept. 9, 1703, aged 22 years.Here lyes a piece of Heaven, t’others above,Which shortly goes up to the World of Love,The Brightest Sweetest Angels must conveyThis spotless Virgin on the starry way;That glitteringquiresings but a lisping song,Till she appears amidst the shining throng.

Here lyeth the Body of Mary the daughter of WmMaiss & Mary his Wife, who died Sept. 9, 1703, aged 22 years.

Here lyes a piece of Heaven, t’others above,Which shortly goes up to the World of Love,The Brightest Sweetest Angels must conveyThis spotless Virgin on the starry way;That glitteringquiresings but a lisping song,Till she appears amidst the shining throng.

Robert Needler.

My resting road is foundVain hope and hap adieu,Love whom you listDeath hath me rid from you.The Lord did me fromLondonbring,To lay my body close herein.I was my father’s only heir,And the first my mother bare.But before one year was spentThe Lord his messenger for me sent.

Rebecca Rogers.

A house she hath it’s made of such good fashion,The tenant ne’er shall pay for reparation;Nor will her landlord ever raise her Rent,Or turn her out of doors for non-payment;From chimney money too this Cell is free,To such a house who would not tenant be.

Henry Jeffry, leaving 8 children.

A faithful friend, a father dear,A loving husband lieth here;My time is past, my glass is run,My children dear, prepare to come.

My wife lies here beneathAlas! from me she’s flown,She was so good, that DeathWould have her for his own.

On John Scott, a Brewer.

Poor John Scott lies buried here,Tho’ one he was bothstoutandhale,Death stretched him on thisbitter bier,In another world hehopsabout.

My death did come to pass,Thro’ sitting on the derty grass;Here I lie where I fell,If you seek my soul go to Hell.

On a profligate Mathematician.

Here lies John Hill,A man of skill,His age was five times ten:He ne’er did good,Nor ever would,Had he lived as long again.

The world is full of crooked streets,Death is a place where all men meets,If life were sold, that men might buy,The rich would live, the poor must die.

On Paul Fuller and Peter Potter, buried near eachother.

’Tis held by Peter and by Paul,That when we fill our graves or urns,Ashes to ashes crumbling fall,And dust to dust once more returns.So here a truth unmeant for mirth,Appears in monumental lay;Paul’s grave is filled with Fuller’s earth,And Peter’s crammed with Potter’s clay.

Tim’s Bobbin’s Grave.

“Here lies John and with him Mary,Cheek by jowl and nevery vary;No wonder they so well agree,Tim wants no punch, and Moll no tea.”

In Nichols’s history of Leicestershire, is inserted the following Epitaph, to the memory of Theophilus Cave, who was buried in the chancel of the Church of Barrow-on-Soar:—

“Here in this Grave there lies a Cave,We call a Cave a Grave;If Cave be Grave, and Grave be Cave,Then reader, judge, I crave,Whether doth Cave here lie in Grave,Or Grave here lie in Cave:If Grave in Cave here buried lie,Then Grave where is thy victory?Go, reader, and report here lies a Cave,Who conquers death, and buyes his own Cave.”

The world’s an Inn, and I her guest:I’ve eat and drank and took my rest,With her awhile, and now I payHer lavish bill and go my way.

Francis Fox, vicar, died 1662.

My debt to Death is paid unto a sand,And pay thou must, that there doth reading stand;And am laid down to sleep, till Christ from highShall raise me, although grim Death stand by.

Mary Hill, died 1784.

With pain and sickness wasted to a bone,Long time to gracious Heaven I made my moan;Then God at length to my complaint gave ear,And sent kind Death to ease my pain and care.Physicians could no longer save the lifeOf a tender mother and a loving wife.

The following quaint memorials of the unhonoured dead, are by the minister of the small and retired village of Waddingham. They have, at all events, the charm of originality, and were long ago inscribed in that quiet nook, where “many a holy text around is strewn, teaching the rustic moralist to die.”

In love we liv’d, in peace did part,All tho it cot us to the heart.O dear—what thoughts whe two hadTo get for our 12 Children Bread;Lord! send her health them to maintain:—I hope to meet my love again.

O angry death yt would not be deny’d,But break ye bonds of love so firmly ty’d!She was a loving wife, a tender nurse,And a faithful friend in every case.

On Henry Fox, a weaver.

Of tender threads this mortal web is made,The woof and warf, and colours early fade;When pow’r divine awakes the sleeping dust,He gives immortal garments to the just.

On the south side of the Sleaford Church, sculptured in the cornice of the water-table, is the following inscription:—

Here lyeth William Harebeter, and Elizabeth, his wife.Cryest ihu graunte yem everlastyng lyfe.

It is noticed in Gough’s great work on Sepulchral Monuments, where, speaking of inscriptions cut on the ledges of stones, or raising them in high relief, he says, “Of this kind on public buildings, I know not a finer sample than in the water-table, on the south side of Sleaford Church.”

On William Gibson.

Who lies here?—Who do you think?’Tis poorWill Gibson,—give him some drink;Give him some drink, I’ll tell you why,When he was living, he always was dry.

Peck has given from the Palmer MS. the following Epitaph, than which nothing can be more pompous or ridiculous:—

On a monument erected in 1735.

Near this place,lye the remainsof Edward Barkham, Esq.Who in his life time at his own expenseErected the stately altar piece in this church;Furnished the communion tableWith a very rich crimson velvet carpet,a cushion of the same, and a beautiful Common Prayerbook;Likewise with two large flagons,a chalice with a cover, together with a paten,All of silver plate.But above all (& what may very justlypreserve his name to latest posterity)he gave and devised by willTo the curate of Wainfleet St. Mary’s and his successorfor everThe sum of 35£. per ann. (over and above his formersalary)with this clause, viz.‘provided the said curate and his successorsdo and shall read prayers and preachonce every Sunday in the year for ever.’So extraordinary an instance of securing a venerationfor the most awful part of our religion,And so rare and uncommon a zealFor promoting God’s worship every Lord’s Day.

Near this place are interred the wives of Richard Jessap; viz.—Alice, on Sept. 27, 1716, aged 25, and Joanna, on Aug. 31, 1720, aged 29.How soon ye objects of my loveBy death were snatcht from me;Two loving matrons they did prove,No better could there be.One child the first left to my care,The other left me three.Joanna was beyond compare,A phœnix rare was she;Heaven thought her sure too good to stayA longer time on earth,In childbed therefore as she lay,To God resign’d her breath.

Near this place are interred the wives of Richard Jessap; viz.—Alice, on Sept. 27, 1716, aged 25, and Joanna, on Aug. 31, 1720, aged 29.

How soon ye objects of my loveBy death were snatcht from me;Two loving matrons they did prove,No better could there be.One child the first left to my care,The other left me three.Joanna was beyond compare,A phœnix rare was she;Heaven thought her sure too good to stayA longer time on earth,In childbed therefore as she lay,To God resign’d her breath.

Here lyeth the body ofMichael Honeywood, D.D.Who was grandchild, and one of theThree hundred and sixty-seven persons,That Mary the wife of Robert Honeywood, Esq.Did see before she died,Lawfully descended from her,viz.Sixteen of her own body, 114 grand children,288 of the third generation, and 9 of the fourth.Mrs. HoneywoodDied in the year 1605,And in the 78thyear of her age.

John Palfreyman, who is buried here,Was aged four & twenty year;And near this place his mother lies;Likewise his father, when he dies.

Here Lies the body of Old Will Loveland,He’s put to bed with a shovel, andEased of expenses for raiment and food,Which all his life-time he would fain have eschewed.He grudged his housekeeping his children’s support,And laid in his meat of the cagge-mag sort.No fyshe or fowle touched he when t’was dearly Bought,But a Green taile or herrings a score for a groate.No friend to the needyHis wealth gather’d speedy,And he never did naught but evil,He liv’d like a hogg,He died like a dogg,And now he rides post to the devil.

In remembrance of that prodigy of nature, Daniel Lambert, a native of Leicester, who was possessed of an excellent and convivial mind, and in personal greatness he had no competitor. He measured three feet one inch round the leg; nine feet four inches round the body, and weighed 52 stone 11 lb. (14 lb. to the stone.) He departed this life on the 21st of June 1809, aged 39 years. As a testimony of respect, this Stone is erected by his friends in Leicester.

On Mary Angel.

To say an angel here interr’d doth lye,May be thought strange, for angels never dye;Indeed some fell from heav’n to hell;Are lost and rise no more;This only fell from death to earth,Not lost, but gone before;Her dust lodg’d here, her soul perfect in grace,Among saints and angels now hath took its place.

On Daniel Saul.

Here lies the body of Daniel Saul,Spitalfield’s weaver—and that’s all.

William Wheatly.

Whoever treadeth on this stone,I pray you tread most neatly;For underneath the same doth lieYour honest friend, Will Wheatly.

(In the Abbey.)

Beneath this stone there lies a scull,Which when it breath’d was wondrous droll;But now ’tis dead and doom’d to rot,This scull’s as wise, pray is it not?As Shakspear’s, Newton’s, Prior’s, Gay’s,The Wits, the sages of their days.

On John Ellis.

Life is certain, Death is sure,Sin’s the wound, and Christ’s the cure.

On Admiral Blake,Who died in August, 1657.

Here lies a man made Spain and Holland shake,Made France to tremble, and the Turks to quake;Thus he tam’d men, but if a lady stoodIn ’s sight, it rais’d a palsy in his blood;Cupid’s antagonist, who on his lifeHad fortune as familiar as a wife.A stiff, hard, iron soldier, for heIt seems had more of Mars than Mercury;At sea he thunder’d, calm’d each rising wave,And now he’s dead sent thundering to his grave.

In Parliament, a Burgess Cole was placed,In Westminster the like for many Years,But now with Saints above his Soul is graced,And lives a Burgess with Heav’n’s Royal Peers.

Underneath where as you see,There lies the body of Simon Tree.

Here lies one More, and no More than he,One More, and no More! how can that be?Why one More and no More may well lie here alone,But here lies one More, and that’s More than one.

On William Bird.

One charming Bird to Paradise is flown,Yet are we not of comfort quite bereft:Since one of this fair brood is still our own,And still to cheer our drooping souls is left.This stays with us while that his flight doth take,That earth and skies may one sweet concert make.

On Walter Good.

A thing here singular this doth unfold,Name and nature due proportion hold;In real goodness who did live his days,He cannot fail to die well, to his praise.

On Gervase Aire.

Under this marble fair,Lies the body entomb’d of Gervase Aire:He dyd not of an ague fit,Nor surfeited by too much wit,Methinks this was a wondrous death,That Aire should die for want of breath.

On Sir Henry Croft.

Six lines this image shall delineate:—High Croft, high borne, in spirit & in virtue high,Approv’d, belov’d, a Knight, stout Mars his mate,Love’s fire, war’s flame, in heart, head, hand, & eye;Which flame war’s comet, grace, now so refines,That pined in Heaven, in Heaven and Earth it shines.

Poor Ralph lies beneath this roof, and sure he must be blest,For though he could do nothing, he meant to do the best,Think of your soules, ye guilty throng,Who, knowing what is right, do wrong.

On Mr. Sand.

Who would live by others’ breath?Fame deceives the dead man’s trust.Even our names much change by death,Sand I was, but now am Dust.

On Robert Thomas Crosfield, M.D. 1802, written by himself.

Beneath this stone Tom Crosfield lies,Who cares not now who laughs or cries;He laughed when sober, and, when mellow,Was a harum scarum heedless fellow;He gave to none design’d offence;So “Honi soit qui mal y pense!”

In the churchyard on a headstone now removed, was the following inscription to William Newberry, who washostler to an inn & died 1695, in consequence of having taken improper medicine given him by a fellow servant.

Hic jacet-Newberry WillVitam finivit-cum Cochiœ PillQuis administravit-Bellamy SueQuantum quantitat-nescio, scisne tu?Ne sutor ultra crepidam.

R. Brigham.

The Father, Mother, Daughter, in one Grave,Lye slumbering here beneath the marble Stone;Three, one in Love, in Tomb, in hope to haveA joyful sight of him that’s Three in One.

On Stephen King.

Farewell, vain world, I knew enough of thee,And now am careless what thou say’st of me,Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear,My soul’s at rest, my head lies quiet here.What faults you see in me, take care to shun,And look at home, enough’s there to be done.

transcript of an inscription

With the abbreviations and spelling, as it was taken fromthe plate itself, June 28th, 1751.

I pye the Crysten man that hast goe to see this:to pye for the soulls of them that here buryed is |And remember that in Cryst we be bretherne:the wich hath comaundid eu’ry man to py for other |This saythRobert Midleton & Johanhis Wyf.Here wrappid in clay. Abiding the mercy |Of Almyghty god till domesdaye.Wych was sutyme s’unt to s’ gorge hasting knyght |Erle of huntingdunt passid this tnscitory lyf,in the yere of our Lord god m cccc...... |And the......day of the moneth of ......On whose soull Almyghty god have m’cy amen |“This Inscription (says a writer inThe Gentleman’s Magazine, for 1751) was inGothicletters, on a plate of brass, in the middle aisle, on the floor near the entrance into the chancel. It contains six lines, the end of each is marked thus |; and it appears to have been laid down in the life-time ofRobert Midleton, because neither the year, day, nor month are set down, but spaces left for that purpose. I observe, that the inhabitants of Islington want to make their church older than I presume it is, and quote this inscription as it is inStrype, 1401, in support of that notion, when it is plain 1500, and is all that it says; and Sir G. Hastings was not created Earl ofHuntingdontill the 8th of December, 1529, so that this inscription must be wrote after that time. The oldest date that appears anywhere about the church, is at the south-east corner of the steeple, and was not visible till the west gallery was pulled down, it is 1483; but as these figures are of a modern shape, it looks as if it was done in the last century; the old way of making these characters was inArabic, and not as they are now generally made.”

“This Inscription (says a writer inThe Gentleman’s Magazine, for 1751) was inGothicletters, on a plate of brass, in the middle aisle, on the floor near the entrance into the chancel. It contains six lines, the end of each is marked thus |; and it appears to have been laid down in the life-time ofRobert Midleton, because neither the year, day, nor month are set down, but spaces left for that purpose. I observe, that the inhabitants of Islington want to make their church older than I presume it is, and quote this inscription as it is inStrype, 1401, in support of that notion, when it is plain 1500, and is all that it says; and Sir G. Hastings was not created Earl ofHuntingdontill the 8th of December, 1529, so that this inscription must be wrote after that time. The oldest date that appears anywhere about the church, is at the south-east corner of the steeple, and was not visible till the west gallery was pulled down, it is 1483; but as these figures are of a modern shape, it looks as if it was done in the last century; the old way of making these characters was inArabic, and not as they are now generally made.”

She’s gone: so, reader, must you go. But where?

On Lady Molesworth.

A peerless matron, pride of female life,In every state, as widow, maid, or wife;Who, wedded to threescore, preserv’d her fame,She lived a phœnix, and expired in flame.

William Lamb.

O Lamb of God which Sin didst take away,And as a Lamb was offered up for Sin.Where I poor Lamb went from thy Flock astray,Yet thou, O Lord, vouchsafe thy Lamb to WinnHome to thy flock, and hold thy Lamb therein,That at the Day when Lambs and Goats shall sever,Of thy choice Lambs, Lamb may be one for ever.

Mary Gaudy, Aged 22, 1671.

This fair young Virgin for a nuptial BedMore fit, is lodg’d (sad fate!) among the Dead,Storm’d by rough Winds, so falls in all her pride,The full blown rose design’d t’ adorn a Bride.

Here are deposited the remains of Mrs. Ann Floyer, the beloved wife of Mr. RdFloyer, of Thistle Grove, in this parish, died on Thursday, the 8th of May, /23. God hath chosen her as a pattern for the other angels.

Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest,Till it be called for, let it rest;For while this jewel here is set,The grave is but a cabinet.

My wife she’s dead, and here she lies,There’s nobody laughs, and nobody cries;Where she’s gone, and how she fares,Nobody knows, and nobody cares.

Here lies Dame Dorothy Peg,Who never had issue except in her leg,So great was her art, and so deep was her cunning,Whilst one leg stood still the other kept running.

The illustrious Hogarth is buried in this churchyard, and the following lines, by David Garrick, are inscribed on his tomb:—

Farewell! great painter of mankind,Who reached the noblest point of art,Whose pictur’d morals charm the mind,And through the eye correct the heart.If genius fire thee, reader stay,If nature move thee, drop a tear,If neither touch thee, turn away,For Hogarth’shonour’d dustlies here.

Here lyeth, wrapt in clay,The body of William Wray;I have no more to say.

On Theodore, King of Corsica, written by Horace Walpole.

Near this place is interred.Theodore, King of Corsica,Who died in this parish Dec. 11, 1756,Immediately after leaving the King’s Bench prison,By the benefit of the Act of Insolvency,In consequence of which he resignedHis Kingdom of CorsicaFor the use of his creditors.The grave great teacher to a level bringsHeroes and beggars, galley slaves and kings,But Theodore this moral learn’d ere dead,Fate pour’d its lessons on his living head,Bestowed a kingdom and denied him bread.

The grave great teacher to a level bringsHeroes and beggars, galley slaves and kings,But Theodore this moral learn’d ere dead,Fate pour’d its lessons on his living head,Bestowed a kingdom and denied him bread.

Here or elsewhere (all’s one to you or me),Earth, air, or water, gripes my ghostly dust,None knows how soon to be by fire set free;Reader, if you an old try’d rule will trust,You’ll gladly do and suffer what you must.My time was spent in serving you and you.And death’s my pay, it seems, and welcome too.Revenge destroying but itself, while ITo birds of prey leave my old cage and fly;Examples preach to the eye—care then (mine says)Not how you end, but how you spend your days.

For thirty years secluded from mankind,Here Marten lingered. Often have these wallsEchoed his footsteps, as with even treadHe paced around his prison. Not to himDid Nature’s fair varieties exist,He never saw the sun’s delightful beams,Save when through yon high bars he pouredA sad and broken splendour.

In the passage leading from the nave to the north aisle in this church, is interred the body of Henry Marten, one of the Judges who presided at the trial of Charles 1stwith the following Epitaph over him, written by himself:—

Here Sept. 9th1680,was buriedA true born Englishman.Who, in Berkshire was well knownTo love his country’s freedom like his own,But being immured full twenty years,Had time to write as doth appear.

John Lee is dead, that good old man,You ne’er will see him more,He used to wear an old brown Coat,All buttoned down before.

Here lyeth entombed the body of Theodoric, King of Morganuch, or Glamorgan, commonly called St. Theodoric, and accounted a martyr, because he was slain in a battle against the Saxons (being then Pagans) and in defence of the Christian religion. The battle was fought at Tynterne, where he obtained a great victory. He died here, being on his way homewards, three days after the battle; having taken order with Maurice his son, who succeeded him in the kingdom, that in the same place he should happen to decease, a church should be built and his body buried in the same, which was accordingly performed in the year 600.

Miles Branthwaite.

If Death would take an answer, he was freeFrom all those seats of ills that he did see,And gave no measure that he would not haveGiven to him as hardly as he gave:Then thou, Miles Branthwaite, might have answer’d Death,And to be so moral might boyle breath,Thou wast not yet to die. But be thou blest,From weary life thou art gone quiet to rest,Joy in the freedom from a prison, thouWast by God’s hands pluckt out but now,Free from the dust and cobwebs of this vale;And richer art thou by the heavenly bailThan he that shut thee up. This heap of stonesTo thy remembrance, and to chest thy bones,Thy wife doth consecrate; so sleep till then,When all graves must open, all yield up their men.

Thomas Legge.

That love that living made us two but one,Wishes at last we both may have this tomb.The head of Gostlin still continues here,As kept for Legge, to whom it was so dear.By death he lives, for ever to remain,And Gostlin hopes to meet him once again.

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