Northamptonshire.

Sarah York this life did resigneOn May the 13th, 79.

Here lies the body of honest Tom Page,Who died in the 33rd year of his age.

On Bryant Lewis, who was barbarously murdered upon the heath near Thetford, Sept. 13, 1698.

Fifteen wide wounds this stone veils from thine eyes,But reader, hark their voice doth pierce the skies.Vengeance, cried Abel’s blood against cursed Cain,But better things spake Christ when he was slain.Both, both, cries Lewis ’gainst his barbarous foes,Blood, Lord, for blood, but save his soul from woe,

John Powl.

Though Death hath seized on me as his prey,Yet all must know we have a judgment day,Therefore whilst life on earth in you remain,Praise all your God who doth your lives maintain,That after death to glory he may us raise,Yield to His Majesty honour, laud, and praise.

Henry Hall.

The phœnix of his timeLies here but sordid clay;His thoughts were most sublime;His soul is sprung away.Then let this grave keep in protectionHis ashes until the resurrection,

Urith Leverington.

The night is come; for sleep, lo! here I stay,My three sweet babes sleep here—we wait for day.That we may rise, and up to bliss ascend,Where crowns and thrones, and robes shall us attend.Thy worst is past, O Death; thous’t done thy part,Thou could’st but kill, we fear no second dart.

ThosHeming—Attorney.

Weep, widows, orphans; all your late support,Himself is summon’d to a higher court:Living he pleaded yours, but with this clause,That Christ at death should only plead his cause.

Mrs. Sarah Mills,Mrs. Rebecca Ward.

Under this stone, in easy slumber liesTwo dusty bodies, that at last shall rise:Their parted atoms shall again rejoin,Be cast into new moulds by hands divine.

John Kett.

Though we did live so many years,Prepare, O youth, for Death,For if he should at noon appear,You must give up your breath.

William Salter.

Here lies Will Salter, honest man,Deny it, Envy, if you can;True to his business and his trust,Always punctual, always just;His horses, could they speak, would tellThey loved their good old master well.His up-hill work is chiefly done,His stage is ended, race is run;One journey is remaining still,To climb up Sion’s holy hill.And now his faults are all forgiven,Elijah-like, drives up to heaven,Takes the reward of all his pains,And leaves to other hands the reins.

I am not dead, but sleepeth here,And when the trumpet sound I will appear.Four balls through me pierced their way,Hard it was, I had no time to pray.The stone that here you do seeMy comrades erected for the sake of me.

Acrostic Epitaph on Robert Porter, a noted miser.

R iches and wealth I now despise,O nce the delight of heart and eyes;B ut since I’ve known the vile deceit,E nvy has met its own defeat.R egardless of such empty toys,T ell all to seek for heavenly joys.P ull’d down by age and anxious cares,O ppressed am I by dismal fears,R elating to my future state,T o know what then will be my fate.E ternal God! to Thee I prayR emove these fearful doubts away.

On a Lawyer.

Here lieth one, believe it if you can,Who tho’ an attorney was an honest man,The gates of heaven shall open wide,But will be shut against all the tribe beside.

My grandfather was buried here,My cousin Jane, and two uncles dear;My father perished with a mortification in his thighs,My sister dropped down dead in the Minories.But the reason why I am here, according to my thinking,Is owing to my good living and hard drinking,Therefore good Christians, if you’d wish to live long,Beware of drinking brandy, gin, or anything strong.

When on this spot, affection’s down-cast eyeThe lucid tribute shall no more bestow;When Friendship’s breast no more shall heave a sigh,In kind remembrance of the dust below;Should the rude Sexton, digging near this tomb,A place of rest for others to prepare,The vault beneath, to violate, presume,May some opposing Christian cry, “Forbear—“Forbear, rash mortal, as thou hop’st to rest,When death shall lodge thee in thy destin’d bed,With ruthless spade, unkindly to molestThe peaceful slumbers of the kindred dead!”

When on this spot, affection’s down-cast eyeThe lucid tribute shall no more bestow;When Friendship’s breast no more shall heave a sigh,In kind remembrance of the dust below;

Should the rude Sexton, digging near this tomb,A place of rest for others to prepare,The vault beneath, to violate, presume,May some opposing Christian cry, “Forbear—

“Forbear, rash mortal, as thou hop’st to rest,When death shall lodge thee in thy destin’d bed,With ruthless spade, unkindly to molestThe peaceful slumbers of the kindred dead!”

On an Actor.

“Sacred to the memory ofThomas Jackson, Comedian, who was engaged December 21st, 1741, to play a comic cast of characters in this great theatre, the world, for many of which he was prompted by nature to excel—The season being ended—his benefit over—the charges all paid, and his account closed, he made his exit in the tragedy of Death, on the 17th of March, 1798, in full assurance of being called once more to rehearsal, andwhere he hopes to find his forfeits all cleared, his cast of parts bettered, and his situation made agreeable by Him who paid the great stock debt, for the love He bore to performers in general.”

William Scrivener,Cook to the Corporation.

Alas! alas!Will Scriviner’sdead, who by his artCould make death’s skeleton edible in each part;Mourn, squeamish stomachs, and ye curious palates,You’ve lost your dainty dishes and your salades;Mourn for yourselves, but not for him i’ th’ least,He’s gone to taste of a more Heav’nly feast.

An Innkeeper.

Man’s life is like a winter’s day,Some only breakfast and away;Others to dinner stay and are full fed,The oldest man but sups and goes to bed;Large is his debt who lingers out the day,Who goes the soonest has the least to pay;Death is the waiter, some few run on tick,And some, alas! must pay the bill to Nick!Tho’ I owe’d much, I hope long trust is given,And truly mean to pay all debts in Heaven.

Sir Richard Worme.

Does worm eat Worm? Knight Worme this truth confirms,For here, with worms, lies Worme, a dish for worms.Does worm eat Worme? sure Worme will this deny,For Worme with worms, a dish for worms don’t lie.’Tis so, and ’tis not so, for free from worms,’Tis certain Worme is blest without his worms.

Jane Parker.

Heare lyeth a midwife brought to bed,Deliveresse delivered;Her body being churched here,Her soule gives thanks in yonder sphere.

Here lies the body of Betty Bowden,Who would live longer, but she couden;Sorrow and grief made her decay,Till her bad leg card her away.

William Houghton.

Neere fourscore years have I tarryedTo this mother to be marryed;One wife I had, and children ten,God bless the living. Amen, Amen.

Pray for me, old Thomas Dunn,But if you don’t, ’tis all one.

Here lies the corpse of Susan Lee,Who died of heartfelt pain;Because she loved a faithless he,Who loved not her again.

Beneath the droppings of this spout,[80a]Here lies the body once so stout,OfFrancis Thompson.A soul this carcase long possess’d,Which for its virtue was caress’d,By all who knew the owner best.TheRufford[80b]records can declareHis actions, who, for seventy year,Both drew and drank its potent beer.Fame mention not in all that time,In this great Butler the least crime,To stain his reputation.To Envy’s self we now appeal,If aught of fault she can reveal,To make her declaration.Then rest, good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear;Thy virtues guard thy soul—thy body good strong beer.He died July 6, 1739, aged 83.

From earth my body first arose,And now to earth again it goes:I ne’er desire to have it more,To tease me as it did before.

Here lies poor Wallace,The prince of good fellows,Clerk of Allhallows,And maker of bellows.He bellows did make to the day of his death,But he that made bellows could never make breath.

Here lies James, of tender affection,Here lies Isabell, of sweet complexion,Here lies Katheren, a pleasant child,Here lies Mary, of all most mild,Here lies Alexander, a babe most sweet,Here lies Jannet, as the Lord saw meet.

Here lieth Martin Elphinston,Who with his sword did cut in sun-der the daughter of Sir HarryCrispe, who did his daughter marry.She was fat and fulsome;But men will some-times eat bacon with their bean,And love the fat as well as lean.

Wha lies here?Pate Watt, gin ye speer.Poor Pate! is that thou?Ay, by my soul, is ’t;But I’s dead now.

Under this stone lies Bobbity John,Who, when alive, to the world was a wonder;And would have been so yet, had not death in a fit,Cut his soul and his body asunder.

Fair Rosomond’s Tomb.

Rosomond was buried at Godstow, a small island formed by the divided stream of the Isis, in the parish of Wolvercot, near Oxford. The following quaint epitaph was inscribed upon her tomb:—

“Hic jacet in Thumba, Rosa Mundi, non Rosamunda,Non redolet sed olet, quæ redolere solet.”

Imitated in English.

“Here lies not Rose the chaste, but Rose the Fair,Her scents no more perfume, but taint the air.”

Another translation.

“The Rose of the World, a sad minx,Lies here;—let’s hope she repented:She doesn’t smell well now, but stinks,—She alwaysusedto be scented.”

Another.

Here doth Fayre Rosamund like any peasant lie:She once was fragrant, but now smells unpleasantly.

On Meredith—an Organist.

Here lies one blown out of breath,Who lived a merry life, and died a Merideth.

On a Letter Founder.

Under this stone lies honestSyl,Who dy’d—though sore against his will;Yet in his fame, he shall survive,—Learning shall keep his name alive;For he the parent was of letters,Andfounded, toconfoundhis betters;Though what those letters should contain,Did never once concern his brain,Since, therefore, Reader, he is gone,Pray let him not be trod upon.

Old Vicar Sutor lieth here,Who had a Mouth from ear to ear,Reader tread lightly on the sod,For if he gapes, your’ gone by G--.

Here lieth the body of Ann Sellars, buried by this stone,Who dyed on January 15th day, 1731.Likewise here lies dear Isaac Sellars, my Husband and my Right,Who was buried on that same day come seven years, 1738.In seven years time there comes a change! observe, and here you’ll seeOn that same day come seven years, my husband’s laid by me.

E. G. Hancock, died August 3, 1666.John Hancock, Sen. ---- 4, ----John Hancock, Jun. ---- 7, ----Oner Hancock, ---- 7, ----William Hancock, ---- 7, ----Alice Hancock, ---- 9, ----Ann Hancock, ---- 10, ----What havoc Death made in one family, in the course of Seven days.

What havoc Death made in one family, in the course of Seven days.

On John Green.

If true devotion or tryde honestyCould have for him got long lives liberty,Nere had he withered but still growne Green,Nor dyed but to ye Poor still helping been.But he is tane from us yet this we comfort have,Heaven hath his Soule still (Green) though body is wasting Grave,In progeniêm filii defunctam adjacentam.My fruit first failed here we low ly,Live well then, fear not all must dy.

Here do lye our dear boy,Whom God hath tain from me:And we do hope that us shall go to he,For he can never come back again to we.

Both young and old that passeth by,Remember well that here lies I,Then think on Death, for soon too true,Alas twill be that here lies you.

A doctor of divinity, who lies in the neighbourhood of Oxford, has his complaint stated for him with unusual brevity, as well as his place of interment:—

“He died of a quinsy,And was buried at Binsey.”

John Spong, Jobbing Carpenter.

Who many a sturdy oak had lain along,Fell’d by Death’s surer hatchet, here liesSpong,Posts oft he made, but ne’er a place could get,And liv’d by railing, though he was no wit:Old saws he had, although no antiquarian,And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian.

On an Old Maid.

Here lies the body of Martha Dias,Who was always uneasy, and not over pious;She lived to the age of threescore and ten,And gave that to the worms she refused to the men.

On a Watchmaker.

Thy movements, Isaac, kept in play,Thy wheels of life felt no decayFor fifty years at least;Till, by some sudden, secret stroke,The balance or the mainspring broke,And all the movements ceas’d.

August 7th, 1714, Mary, the wife of Joseph Yates, of Lizard Common, within the parish, was buried, aged 127 years. She walked to London just after the Fire, in 1666; was hearty and strong at 120 years; and married a third husband at 92.

Charles Dike.

Joyous his birth, wealth o’er his cradle shone,Gen’rous he prov’d, far was his bounty known;Men, horses, hounds were feasted at his hall,There strangers found a welcome bed and stall;Quick distant idlers answered to his horn,And all was gladness in the sportsman’s morn.But evening came, and colder blew the gale,Means, overdone, had now begun to fail;His wine was finished, and he ceas’d to brew,And fickle friends now hid them from his view.Unknown, neglected, pin’d the man of worth,Death his best friend, his resting-place the Earth.

But evening came, and colder blew the gale,Means, overdone, had now begun to fail;His wine was finished, and he ceas’d to brew,And fickle friends now hid them from his view.Unknown, neglected, pin’d the man of worth,Death his best friend, his resting-place the Earth.

The following is copied from a head-stone, set up in the churchyard of High Ercall. Those who are fond of the sublime, will certainly rejoice over this precious poetical morsel:—

Salop, Oct. 1797.Elizabeththe Wife OfRichard Baarlamb,passed to Eternity on Sunday, the 21st of May,1797, in the 71st year of her age.When terrestrial all in Chaos shall Exhibit effervescence,Then Celestial virtues in their most Refulgent Brilliant essence,Shall with beaming Beauteous Radiance, thro’ the ebullition Shine;Transcending to Glorious Regions Beatifical, Sublime.

Salop, Oct. 1797.Elizabeththe Wife OfRichard Baarlamb,passed to Eternity on Sunday, the 21st of May,1797, in the 71st year of her age.

When terrestrial all in Chaos shall Exhibit effervescence,Then Celestial virtues in their most Refulgent Brilliant essence,Shall with beaming Beauteous Radiance, thro’ the ebullition Shine;Transcending to Glorious Regions Beatifical, Sublime.

On a Thursday she was born,On a Thursday made a bride,On a Thursday put to bed,On a Thursday broke her leg, andOn a Thursday died.

Sarah Higmore, æt. 6.

Ye modern fair, who’er you be,This Truth we can aver:A lesson of humilityYou all may learn from her.She had what none of you can boast,With all your Wit and Sense—She had what you, alas! have lost,And that was—Innocence.

James Waters.

Death, traversing the western road,And asking where true merit lay,Made in this town a short abode,And took this worthy man away.

John Webb,

Son of John and Mary Webb, Clothiers, who died of themeasles, May 3d, 1646, aged 3 years.

How still he lies!And clos’d his eyes,That shone as bright as day!The cruel measles,Likeclothier’s teasels,Have scratched his life away.Cochineal red,His lips have fled,Which now areblueandblack.Dear pretty wretch,How thy limbsstretch,Likecloth upontherack.Repressthy sighs,The husband cries,My dear, and not repine,For ten to one,When God’s work’s done,He’llcome off superfine.

How still he lies!And clos’d his eyes,That shone as bright as day!The cruel measles,Likeclothier’s teasels,Have scratched his life away.

Cochineal red,His lips have fled,Which now areblueandblack.Dear pretty wretch,How thy limbsstretch,Likecloth upontherack.

Repressthy sighs,The husband cries,My dear, and not repine,For ten to one,When God’s work’s done,He’llcome off superfine.

On Anthony Cooke, who died on Easter Monday.

At the due sacrifice of the Paschall Lambe,April had 8 days wept in showers, then cameLeane, hungry death, who never pitty tooke,And cause the feast was ended, slew this Cooke.On Easter Monday, he lyves then noe day more,But sunk to rise with him that rose before;He’s here intomb’d; a man of virtue’s lineOut reacht his yeares, yet they were seventy-nine.He left on earth ten children of elevenTo keep his name, whilst himself went to heaven.

In Mem. of Mary Maria, wife of WmDodd, who died Decr12th, A.D. 1847, aged 27. Also of their children, Louisa, who died Decr12th, 1847, aged 9 months; and Alfred, who died Jany3rd, A. D. 1848, aged 2 years and 9 months.All victims to the neglect of sanitary regulation, and specially referred to in a recent lecture on Health in this town.And the Lord said to the angel that destroyed, it is enough, stay now thine hand.—1 Chron. xx. 17.

All victims to the neglect of sanitary regulation, and specially referred to in a recent lecture on Health in this town.

And the Lord said to the angel that destroyed, it is enough, stay now thine hand.—1 Chron. xx. 17.

In Mem. of Joseph, son of Joseph and Mary Meek, who was accidentally drowned in the cistern of the day school adjoining this church, April 30th, 1845, aged 8 years. This distressing event is recorded by the minister, as an expression of sympathy with the parents, and caution to the children of the school—a reproof to the proprietors of the open wells, pits and landslips; the want of fencingabout which is the frequent cause of similar disaster in these districts; and as a memento to all of the uncertainty of life, and the consequent necessity of immediate and continued preparation for death.

“And if any man ask you, Why do you loose him? Then shall ye say unto him, Because the Lord hath need of him.”[90]—Luke xix. 31.

Near to this stone John Barnett lies,There’s no man frets, nor no man cries,Where he’s gone, or how he fares,There’s no man knows, nor no man cares.

Here Leah’s fruitfulness,Here Rachael’s beauty;Here lyeth Rebecca’s faith,Here Sarah’s duty.

Ann Jennings.

Some have children, some have none;Here lies the mother of twenty-one.

Live well—die never;Die well—live for ever.

The following whimsical epitaph appears upon a white marble slab, in a conspicuous part of the church of St. Mary:—

Near this place are deposited the remains of Gedge, Printer, who established the first newspaper that has been published in this town. Like a worn out type, he is returned to thefounder, in the hope of being recast in a better and more perfect mould.

The charnel mounted on this w )Sits to be seen in funer )A matron plain, domestic )In housewifery a princip )In care and pains continu )Not slow, nor gay, nor prodig ) all.Yet neighbourly and hospitab )Her children seven yet living )Her 67th year hence did c )To rest her body natur )In hope to rise spiritu )

On little Stephen, a noted fiddler.

Stephen and TimeAre now both even;Stephen beat Time,Now Time beats Stephen.

Life is only pain below,When Christ appears, then up we go.

John Warner.

I Warner once was to myself,Now Warning am to thee,Both living, dying, dead I was,See then thou warned be.

On ---- More, of Norwich.

More had I once, More would I have;More is not to be had.The first I . . . the next is vaine;The third is too too bad.If I had us’d with more regardThe More that I did give,I might have made More use and fruitOf More while he did live.

Here she lies, a pretty bud,Lately made of flesh and blood;Who as soon fell fast asleepAs her little eyes did peep.Give her strewings, but not stirThe earth that lightly covers her.

Quod fuit esse quod est, quod non fuit esse quod esse.Esse quod est non esse, quod est non erit esse.

Translation.

What John Giles has been,Is what he is (a batchelor);What he has not been,Is what he is (a corpse);To be what he isIs not to be (a living creature).He will not have to beWhat he is not (dust).

Here lies Jane Kitchen, who, when her glass was spent,Kickt up her heels, and away she went.

William Palin.

Silent grave, to thee I trustThis precious pearl of worthy dust.Keep it safe, O sacred tomb!Until a wife shall ask for room.

Here lies the wife of Roger Martin,She was a good wife to Roger—that’s sartain.

The Lord saw good, I was topping off wood,And down fell from the tree;I met with a check, and I broke my blessed neck,And so Death topped off me.

Sweet Saviour, Jesus, give me wingsOf Peace and perfect Love,As I may move from Earthly Things,To rest with thee above.For sins and Sorrows overflowAll earthly things so High,That I can’t find no rest below,Till up to thee I fly.

Sweet Saviour, Jesus, give me wingsOf Peace and perfect Love,As I may move from Earthly Things,To rest with thee above.

For sins and Sorrows overflowAll earthly things so High,That I can’t find no rest below,Till up to thee I fly.

In memory of Mr. WmMachell, who departed this life Oct. 10, 1808. Aged 88 years.Whilst in this world I remained, my life wasA pleasure and health and gain. But nowGod thought best to take me to his everlasting rest,And I thank God for it.

In memory of Mr. WmMachell, who departed this life Oct. 10, 1808. Aged 88 years.

Whilst in this world I remained, my life wasA pleasure and health and gain. But nowGod thought best to take me to his everlasting rest,And I thank God for it.

On the South Wall of this Church is the following remarkable Inscription:—Elizabeth, wife of Major-GenlHamilton, who was married 47 years, and never did ONE thing to disoblige her Husband.

Sir Edward Court.

“Alone, unarm’d, a tiger he oppress’d,And crush’d to death the monster of a beast:Thrice twenty mounted Moors he overthrewSingly on foot, some wounded, some he slew,Disperst the rest; what more could Sampson do?”

Note.—This is only part of the inscription, which relates that, being attacked in the woods by a tiger, he placed himself on the side of a pond, and when the tiger flew at him, he caught him in his arms, fell back with him into the water, got upon him, and kept him down till he had drowned him.

Reader, pass on, ne’er waste your timeOn bad biography and bitter rhyme;For what I am, this cumb’rous clay insures,And what I was, is no affair of yours.

Thomas Greenhill.

Under thy feet interr’d is hereA native born in Oxfordshire;First life and learning Oxford gave,Surry him his death and grave;He once a Hill was fresh and Greene,Now withered is not to be seene;Earth in earth shovell’d up is shut,A Hill into a Hole is put;But darksome earth by Power Divine,Bright at last as the sun may shine.

On Captain John Dunch, who died in 1697, aged 67.

Though Boreas’ blasts and Neptune’s wavesHave tossed me to and fro,In spight of both, by God’s decree,I anchor here below,Where I do now at anchor ride,With many of our fleet,Yet once again I must set sail,Our admiral, Christ, to meet.

Richard Wade, died Oct. 21, 1810, aged 53.Giles Wade, died Dec. 8, 1810, aged 53.

Near together they came,Near together they went,Near together they are.

All you that come my grave to seePrepare yourself to Follow me,Take care Young men repent in timeFor I was taken in my Prime.As I was going through a BarnI little thought of any harm,A piece of Timber on me fell,And penetrated through my Skull.My Eyes were Blinded I could not see,My Parents they did weep for Me,My Time was come I was Forced to go,And bid the World and Them Adieu.Just six and thirty hours I layIn great Pain and Agony,Till the Archangel bid me come,And called my Soul to its last Home.

All you that come my grave to seePrepare yourself to Follow me,Take care Young men repent in timeFor I was taken in my Prime.

As I was going through a BarnI little thought of any harm,A piece of Timber on me fell,And penetrated through my Skull.

My Eyes were Blinded I could not see,My Parents they did weep for Me,My Time was come I was Forced to go,And bid the World and Them Adieu.

Just six and thirty hours I layIn great Pain and Agony,Till the Archangel bid me come,And called my Soul to its last Home.

A certain noble lord of no very moral life, dying, had inscribed upon his tomb, the phrase, “Ultima Domus,”—Collins, the poet, is said to have pencill’d those lines under the words:—

Did he who wrote upon this wall,Believe or disbelieve St. Paul?Who says where-er it is or stands,There is another house not made with hands,Or do we gather from these words,That house is not a house of lords?

Here lies an old soldier whom all must applaud,Who fought many battles at home and abroad;But the hottest engagement he ever was in,Was the conquest of self in the battle of sin.

On a Young Lady.

I lay me down to rest me,And pray to God to bless me,And if I sleep and never wake,I pray to God my soul to takeThis night for Evermore—Amen.

Vast Strong was I, but yet did dye,And in my Grave asleep I Lye,My Grave is Stoned all round about,But I hope the Lord will find me out.

Oh reader! if that thou can’st readLook down upon this stone;Do all we can, Death is a man,What never spareth none.

Here lies the body of Edward Hide,We laid him here because he died,We had ratherIt been his father,If it had been his sisterWe should not have missed her,But since ’tis honest Ned,No more shall be said.

Here lies my poor wife, without bed or blanket,But dead as a door nail, God be thanked.

Mr. Samford, Blacksmith.

My Sledge and hammer lie reclined,My Bellows, too, have lost their wind;My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed,And in the dust my vice is laid;My coal is spent, my iron gone,My nails are drove, my work is done.

I was as grass that did grow up,And wither’d before it grew,As Snails do waste within their Shells,So the number of my days were few.

Elizabeth Ellis (1757).

If love and virtue doth conduce to grace the fair,These was once possessed by her who lieth here;But alas! by fate the object of her love was drowned.By death surprized in trying to save a hound.Which such effect had on her tender mindIt brought her into a deep decline.With him her transitory bliss is fled,And she a cold companion of the dead.Since this catastrophe cannot fail to showHow uncertain all earthly joys are here below.

His fate was hard, but God’s decreeWas, drown’d he should lie—in the sea.

By a Lady on her Husband.

Oh! cruel death, how could you be so unkind,To takehimbefore, and leave me behind.You should have taken both of us—if either,Which would have been more pleasant to thesurvivor.

My time is out, my glass is run,I never more shan’t see the sun;To live for ever, no man don’t,The Lord does not think fitting on’t.

Upon a rich Merchant’s Wife.

She was What was,But words are Wanting to say what a One.What a Wife should be,She was that.

On Shakspeare’s Monument are engraved the following distich and lines:—

“Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem,Terra tegit, populus mœret, Olympus habet.”“Stay, passenger, why dost thou go so fast?Read, if thou canst, what envious death hath placedWithin this monument; Shakspeare, with whomQuick nature died; whose name doth deck the tombFar more than cost, since all that he hath writLeaves living art but page unto his wit.”

“Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem,Terra tegit, populus mœret, Olympus habet.”

“Stay, passenger, why dost thou go so fast?Read, if thou canst, what envious death hath placedWithin this monument; Shakspeare, with whomQuick nature died; whose name doth deck the tombFar more than cost, since all that he hath writLeaves living art but page unto his wit.”

Here lies a Wife,Mary Metcalf,Where I was born, or when,It matters not,—To whom related, orBy whom begot.

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