His fate was hard, but God’s decree Was, drown’d he should lie—in the sea. Warwickshire. BIRMINGHAM. By a Lady on her Husband. Oh! cruel death, how could you be so unkind, To take _him_ before, and leave me behind. You should have taken both of us—if either, Which would have been more pleasant to the _survivor_. * * * * * 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. COVENTRY. 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. STRATFORD ON AVON. 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 placed Within this monument; Shakspeare, with whom Quick nature died; whose name doth deck the tomb Far more than cost, since all that he hath writ Leaves living art but page unto his wit.” Westmoreland. RAVENSTONEDALE. Here lies a Wife, Mary Metcalf, Where I was born, or when, It matters not,— To whom related, or By whom begot. * * * * * John Robinson Hunter, Aged 30. He lived; and died Unplaced, unpensioned— No man’s heir Or slave. “Can the inhabitants of Ravenstonedale look at either of these monuments without blushing? Can the freeholders of that parish look at the latter, and not consider it prophetically as the voice of one speaking from the dead?” Wiltshire. SALISBURY. “Innocence embellishes, divinely compleat, The pre-existing co-essence, now sublimely great. He can surpassingly immortalize thy theme, And perforate thy soul, celestial supreme. When gracious refulgence bids the grave resign The Creator’s nursing protection be thine. So shall each perspiring æther joyfully arise, Transcendantly good, supereminently wise.” * * * * * In the morning I was well, In the afternoon from a cart I fell, An accident somewhat severe, In less than a fortnight brought me here. ANSTEY. Mary Best lies buried hear, Her age it was just ninety year; Twenty-eight she liv’d a single life, And only four years was a wife; She liv’d a widow fifty-eight, And died January 11, eighty-eight. CALNE. God worketh wonders now and then, Here lies a miller, and an honest man. Worcestershire.