If mortals may departed worth revere,
Still let thy husband shed the silent tear :
Still let him press thy image to his heart,
From which it never, never shall depart.
Yet, yet awhile, and then 'twill be my lot
To join thy dust in yon sequester'd spot.
Mean time, as flowers spontaneous round it bloom,
May white-rob'd Innocence bedeck thy tomb!
May solemn requiems float upon the air,
For ever sweet to listening sorrow's ear;
While I, observant of thy virtues, strive
Like thee to suffer, and like thee to live.

PASSERAT.

An elegant French writer of Epitaphs, and author of the celebrated one on Henry III. who was killed by a Monk, left these lines only for his own tomb, desiring his scholars to strew garlands of flowers upon his grave.

I liv'd, I dy'd, the common lot of all.

Light o'er my bones the flow'ry herbage rest,
And no officious lines their peace molest.

CUMBERLAND.

WHY look ye, d'ye see, now who lies here,
Sure, and sure, the body of JOHN TRAGERE.
Who ne'er in all his life-time thought fit,
To marry his daughter to NICHOLAS KIRKIT.

BIGBY, LINColn.

To the Memory of

ELIZABETH TIRWHITT,

Who departed this life July 16th, 1604. STRANGER! who death's cold mansion passest by, Perchance unmindful of thy future doom; I'll tell thee who it is, while heaves the sigh, That rests the tenant of yon silent tomb. 'Tis Bridget,-whose transcendent virtues bear The noble stamp of a less noble line; Such were indeed her virtues, rich and rare,

The hand that form'd her was itself divine. None could, like her, e'er boast such matchless grace; All view'd with rapture her enchanting form; But now, alas! on that once beauteous face,

On those dear reliques, feeds the hungry worm. Relentless Death! ah, why destroy this flower? Why rudely crop it, ere 'twas fairly blown? Why snatch my life, my love, in one sad hour, Ere five and twenty years had scarcely flown? Her merits well deserv'd a longer life :

Such was her worth, it claim'd a better meed: And oh had Heav'n but spar'd the lovely wife, Then had the husband been most blest indeed. But now the partner of her joys and cares, Wan and forlorn, accusing wayward fate, Like some lone dove, with ceaseless sighs and tears, In vain laments her lost, her long lov'd mate.

PARISH CHURCH OF LEEDS, YORKSHIRE.
UNDER this stone do lie six children small,
Of JOHN WILLINGTON of the NORTH HALL.

WORCESTER CATHEDRAL.

HERE lieth the bodies of John Moore, and Ann his wife,

Father and mother to Thomas Moore, who here lyeth With Mary his wife, also John Moore and Margaret, Their sister here lyeth: here borne, here bred, Here buried, December Anno 1613.

ST. BOTOLPH, ALDGATE.
MISS PRISCILLA ELYARD,

Aged 17 Years. Died March 26, 1799.
Ir Beauty's magic power could save
The lov'd possessor from the grave,
If Virtue and fair Innocence
Could with the laws of Fate dispense,
Then tyrant Death thy cruel dart
Had never pierc'd this gentle heart,
Snatch'd her in all her blooming charms
A victim from her parents arms.
Yet, cease to shed the pitying tear,
For while her body slumbers here
Her soul has left this dark abode
To dwell for ever with her God.

PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL.

HERE lyes a babe, that only cry'd,
In baptism to be wash'd from sin, and dy'd.
January 17, 1666,

ON MR. JOHN FLIN,

A PAINTER, OF GALWAY, IN IRELAND,

Who, though a Roman Catholic, wrote the following Epitaph for himself.

HERE lies JOHN FLIN,

To worms a kin;
Eftsoons by vagrant boys bely'd,
That while he liv'd, he often dy'd.
Saints oft he painted,

Himself not sainted;

Yet leaves perhaps a fame as fair,
As many souls of them that are:
He laught at fate;
Despis'd the great;

Was happy in his fav'rite dram;
And pity'd those who others damn.
Liv'd to the age of sixty-seven,

Spurn'd at this earth, and flew to heaven.

ON MRS. G.

By Broome.

WHOEVER knows or hears whose sacred bones
Rest here within these monumental stones,
How dear a mother, and how sweet a wife,
If he has bowels, cannot for his life
But on these. ashes here some tears distill,
For if men will not weep, this marble will.

PRESCOT, LANCASHIRE.

Matthew Fairhurst, of Bold, was buried here,
Thirteenth of August, in the year

1715.

John, his son, did before him die,
And here below their bodies lie,
March 15, 1708.
Another son, Samuel by name,
Soon after his father hither came,

March 4, 1716.

And James, his son, was call'd away,
Interred here the twentieth day

November, 1719.

Thomas, his youngest son of all,

By Death's hand did after fall,

February 14, 1723.

FENNY STRATFORD CHAPEL, BUCKS.
ON THOMAS WILLIS, M. D.
In honour to thy mem'ry, blessed shade!
Was the foundation of this chapel laid. ·
Purchas'd by thee, thy son and* present heir,
Owe these three manors to thy sacred care.
For this, may all thy race thanks ever pay,
And yearly celebrate St. Martin's Day!+

* Browne Willis, Esq. the doctor's grandson.

This chapel was raised and endowed by Browne Willis, and dedicated to St. Martin, because the doctor was born in the parish of St. Martin's in the Fields, London.