They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
They paid the church and parish rate,
And took, but read not the receipt;
For which they claim'd their Sunday's due
Of slumb'ring in an upper pew.
No man's defects sought they to know,
So never made themselves a foe:
No man's good deeds did they commend,
So never rais'd themselves a friend.
Nor cherish'd they relations poor,
That might decrease their present store;
Nor barn nor house did they repair;
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added, nor confounded,
They neither wanted, nor abounded.
Each Christmas they accounts did clear,
And wound their bottom round the year.
Nor tear nor smile did they employ,
At news of public grief or joy.
When bells were rung, and bonfires made,
If ask'd, they ne'er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carry'd,
Whoever either died or marry'd:
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was depos'd or crown'd.
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise,
They would not learn, nor could advise ;
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,
They led-a kind of-
Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cry'd, And so they liv'd, and so they dy'd.
ST. BENNET'S LONDON.
ON KATHERINE PRETTYMAN.
Who died August 11, 1594.
HERE lyeth KATHERINE PRETTYMAN,
A mayde of seventeen yeeres;
In SUFFOLKE born, in LONDON bred,
As by her death appears.
With Nature's gifts she was adorn'd,
Of honest birth and kin,
Her virtuous minde, with modest grace,
Did love of many win.
But when she should, with honest match,
Have liv'd a wedded life,
Stay there, quoth Jove, the world is nought,
For she shall be my wife.
And Death, since thou hast done thy due,
Lay nuptial rites aside,
And follow her unto the grave,
That should have been your bride:
Whose honest life, and faithful end,
Her patience therewithall,
Doth plainly shew, that she with CHRIST,
Now lives, and ever shall.
UNMARK'D by trophies of the great and vain,
Here sleeps in silent tombs a gentle train;
No folly wasted their paternal store,
No guilt, no sordid av'rice made it more.
With honest fame and sober plenty crown'd,
They liv'd, and spread their cheering influence round.
May he whose hand this pious tribute pays,
Receive a like return of filial praise!
BLUSH not, ye fair, to own me, but be wise,
Nor turn from sad Mortality your eyes :
Fame says, and Fame alone can tell how true,
I once was lovely, and belov'd like you.
Where are my vot'ries? where my flatt'rers now?
Fled with the subject of each lover's vow.
Adieu! the roses red and lilies white;
Adieu! those eyes that made the darkness light:
No more, alas! that coral lip is seen,
Nor longer breathes the fragrant gale between.
Turn from your mirror, and behold in me
At once what thousands can't or dare not see;
Unvarnish'd I the real truths impart,
Nor here am plac'd, but to direct the heart.
Survey me well, ye fair ones, and believe
The grave may terrify, but can't deceive.
On beauty's fragile state no more depend,
Here youth and beauty, age and sorrow end:
Here drops the mask; here shuts the final scene;
Nor differs grave threescore from gay fifteen :
All press alike to that same goal the tomb,
Where wrinkled LAURA Smiles at CHLOE's bloom.
When coxcombs flatter, and when fools adore,
Learn here the lesson to be vain no more;
Yet virtue still against decay can arm,
And even lend mortality a charm.
'Here lies J. H. in expectation of the day of 'judgement,
'What he was, that day will shew.'
IN ST. MARIA NUOVA, NAPLES, IS AN ITALIAN INSCRIPTION, WHICH IN ENGLISH RUNS THUS.
'I was what I am not. I am what I was not. 'What I am thou shalt be. SPAIN gave me birth : ITALY determined my fortune. Here I lie buried. 'RODERIGO Nunez de Palma, 1597.’
HERE lies the corpse of WILLIAM Prynne,
Bencher, late of Lincoln's-Inn,
Who restless ran through thick and thin.
This grand scripturient paper-spiller,
This endless, needless margin-filler,
Was strangely tost from post to pillar.
His brain's career was never stopping,
But pen with rheum of gall still dropping,
Till hand o'er head brought ears to cropping.
Nor would he yet surcease such themes,
But prostitute new virgin reams,
To types of his fanatic dreams.
But while he this hot humour huggs, {
And for more length of tedder tugs,
Death fang'd the remnant of his lugs.
CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.
Sacred to the Memory of
WILLIAM PRUDE, Esq.
Lieutenant-Colonel in the Belgick Wars: slain at the Siege of Maestricht, the 12 July, 1632.
STAND, Soldiers; ere you march by way of charge,
Take an example here that may enlarge
Here in peace
Your minds to noble actions.
Rests one whose life was war, whose rich increase
Of fame and honour from his valour grew,
Unbegg'd, unbought, for what he won he drew
By just desert: having in service been
A soldier till near sixty, from sixteen
Years of his active life: continually
Fearless of death, yet still prepar'd to die
In his religious thoughts: for 'midst all harms
He bore as much of piety as arms.
Now, Soldiers, on, and fear not to intrude
The gates of death, by example of this PRUDE.
ST. GEORGE'S RATCLIFF CHURCH YARD.
To the Memory of the learned and ingenious
MR. DUGGAN,
who died July 6th, 1777, aged 24 Years.
HERE rests a youth whom fate has snatch'd away,
Just when his genius beam'd its flatt'ring ray;
But that's not all, his greatest merit shone,
In moral precepts which were all his own ;
The path of virtue ever he pursu'd,
And gloried in the act of doing good:
Now o'er his grave each worthy friend replies,
Clasping their friendly hands, "HERE DUGGAN LIES."
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