ON THE CAMBRIDGE CARRIER,
Who sickened in the Time of his Vacancy, being forbid to go
London by Reason of the Plague.
Here lies old Hobson,-Death has broke his girt,
And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt,
Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
'Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had any time, this ten years full,
Dodg'd with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.*
And surely Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd;
But, lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journey's end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,
In the kind office of a chamberlain,
Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night, Pull'd off his boots, and took
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
Hobson has supp'd, and's newly gone to bed.
Here lieth one who did most truly prove
That he could never die while he could move,
So hung his destiny never to rot
While he might still jog on and keep his trot,
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:
And, like an engine mov'd with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceas'd, he ended straight.
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm,
Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Merely to drive the time away, he sicken'd,
Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd.
* "Bull," Bishopsgate Street.
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning-bed outstretch'd,
If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd:
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
For one carrier put down to make six bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and, to judge right,
He died for heaviness that his cart went light;
His leisure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burthensome,
That e'en to his last breath (there be that say't),
As he were prest to death, he cry'd more weight;
But, had his doings lasted as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase.
His letters are deliver'd all and gone,
Only remains this superscription.
IN BRENT-PELHAM CHURCH, HERTS.
Tantum fama manet Cadmi, Sanctique Georgi,
Posthuma tempus edax ossa sepulchra vorat.
Hoc tamen in muro tutus qui perdidit anguem.
Invito positus Demone Shonkus erat.
Nothing of Cadmus, nor St. George, those names
Of great renown, survives them but their fames :
Time was so sharp-set as to make no bones
Of theirs, nor of their monumental stones.
But Shonk one serpent kills, t'other defies,
And in this wall as in a fortress lies.
This inscription is on an ancient monument of stone, wherein a man is figured, and about bim an eagle, a lion, and a bull, all having wings; and the fourth the shape of an angel, as if they should represent the four evangelists. Under the feet of the man is a cross fleurie, and under the cross a serpent. He is thought to be the lord of an old decayed house, well moated, not far from this place, called O Piers Shonkes. He lived anno à Conquestu, 21.
ON MR. MADDOX, A DANCING-MASTER, AND HIS WIFE.
They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided.
Hail, happy pair! predestin'd long to prove
The chastest raptures of connubial love!
Who took no step through life's perplexed dance,
But what would well your mutual bliss advance!
Who figur'd not a plan but what was meant
Again to join your hands with fresh content!
Though ceremonious-yet with ease still fraught,
The very image of the art you taught!
Polite in all life's mazy measures try'd,
As the gay partner to his destin'd bride.
Twice thirty years in gentle wedlock past,
The first was not so happy as the last!
Still each to each so complaisantly gay,
As raptur'd lovers on their nuptial day!
All wing'd with down their years advancing roll,
And still improve this unison of soul!
Unvarying courtly to his latest breath,
He gave his spouse precedence e'en in death.
The truest honours to each other given,
He just surviv'd, then led her up to heaven.
ON MR. FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
He that hath such acuteness, and such wit,
As would ask ten good heads to husband it;
He that can write so well, that no man dare
Refuse it for the best, let him beware;
Beaumont is dead, by whose sole death appears,
Wit's a disease consumes men in few years.
BISHOP CORBET.
ON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUH.
Here lies John Duke of Marlborough,
Who run the French thorough and thorough;
He married Sarah Jennings, spinster,
Died at Windsor, and was buried at Westminster.
IN NEWINGTON CHURCH-YARD.
Life's but a jest,
And all things show it,
I thought so once,
But now I know it.
IN NEWINGTON CHURCH-YARD, ON JAMES
BLACKBURN, A BLACKSMITH.
My sledge and hammer lie declin'd,
My bellows, too, have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decay'd,
And in the dust my vice is laid;
My coal is spent, my iron gone,
My nails are driven, my work is done;
My fire-dried corpse here lies at rest,
My soul, smoke-like, soars to be blest.
AN ACROSTIC EPITAPH.
Here or elsewhere (all's one to you or me),
Earth, air, or water gripes my ghostless dust,
N one knowing when brave fire shall set it free.
Reader, if you an oft-try'd rule will trust,
You'll gladly do and suffer all you must.
y life was worn with serving yours and you,
A nd death's my pay (it seems), and welcome too.
Revenge destroying but itself, while I
To birds of prey leave my cold cage and fly.
E xamples preach to th' eye, care (then mine says)
Not how you end, but how you spend your days.
This was written by Henry Marten for himself. He died suddenly in Chepstow Castle, in 1680, and was buried in the church there. Antony Wood calls this poor wretch Oliver Cromwell's shoeing-horn; as the protector just made what use
of him he wanted, and then turned him off.
* Most readers, doubtless, know, that these were the lines written by the poet GAY as an epitaph for himself.
IN ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL.
Here lieth, in a certain expectation of the resurrection of the body, JOHN AYLMER, Lord Bishop of London, who died A. D. 1594, aged 73.
For eighteen years the prelate's robe he wore :
Once, banish'd for his faith, he fled;
Twice, the high place of champion for it bore,-
So just, so active was the life he led.
IN BERMONDSEY CHURCH-YARD,
Twelve years I was a lively maid;
Two years I was a virtuous wife;
Half an hour I was a mother;
And then I lost my life.
In a village church-yard, near Thornton, in Yorkshire, is to be seen a plain stone, close to the church, raised to the memory of John Trollop, who appears to have been the builder of the church; and the epitaph runs quaintly in these words:
Here lies John Trollop,
Who made these stones to roll up:
When God Almighty took his soul up,'
His body went to fill this hole up.
MRS. MARGARET HILL.
Died June 25, 1731, aged thirty-eight.
Enough, cold stone! suffice her long-lov'd name!
Words are too weak to pay her virtue's claim,
Temples, and tombs, and towns shall waste away,
And power's vain pomp in mouldering dust decay:
But ere mankind a wife more perfect see,
Eternity, O time! shall bury thee.
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