Here lies old Hobson: death has broke his girt, And here! alas, has 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 these ten years full, Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull; And surely Death could never have prevailed, Had not his weekly course of carriage failed. 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 Showed him the room where he must lodge that night, Pulled off his boots and took away the light. If any ask for him it shall be said, Hobson has supt and's newly gone to bed. In Trinity churchyard, Sheffield, formerly might be seen an epitaph on a bookseller, as follows:-- In Memory of RICHARD SMITH, who died April 6th, 1757, aged 52. At thirteen years I went to sea; To try my fortune there, But lost my friend, which put an end To all my interest there. To land I came as 'twere by chance, At twenty then I taught to dance, And yet unsettled in my mind, To something else I was inclined; At twenty-five laid dancing down, To be a bookseller in this town, Where I continued without strife, Till death deprived me of my life. Vain world, to thee I bid farewell, To rest within this silent cell, Till the great God shall summon all To answer His majestic call, Then, Lord, have mercy on us all. The following epitaph was written on James Lackington, a celebrated bookseller, and eccentric character:-- Good passenger, one moment stay, And contemplate this heap of clay; 'Tis LACKINGTON that claims a pause, Who strove with death, but lost his cause: A stranger genius ne'er need be Than many a merry year was he. Some faults he had, some virtues too (The devil himself should have his due); And as dame fortune's wheel turn'd round, Whether at top or bottom found, He never once forgot his station, Nor e'er disown'd a poor relation; In poverty he found content, Riches ne'er made him insolent. When poor, he'd rather read than eat, When rich books form'd his highest treat, His first great wish to act, with care, The sev'ral parts assigned him here; And, as his heart to truth inclin'd, He studied hard the truth to find. Much pride he had,--'twas love of fame, And slighted gold, to get a name; But fame herself prov'd greatest gain, For riches follow'd in her train. Much had he read, and much had thought, And yet, you see, he's come to nought; Or out of print, as he would say, To be revised some future day: Free from errata, with addition, A new and a complete edition. At Rugby, on Joseph Cave, Dr. Hawksworth, wrote:--