DEATH long had wish’d within his reach, So sweet, so delicate a PEACH: He struck the Tree—the trunk lay mute; But _Angels_ bore away the _Fruit_! * * * * * Here lies my poor wife, Without bed or blanket, But dead as a door nail, God be thanked. * * * * * Epitaph on a violent Scold. My spouse and I full many a year Liv’d man and wife together, I could no longer keep her here, She’s gone—the Lord knows whither. Of tongue she was exceeding free, I purpose not to flatter, Of all the wives I e’er did see, None sure like her could chatter. Her body is disposed of well, A comely grave doth hide her, I’m sure her soul is not in hell, For old Nick could ne’er abide her. Which makes me guess she’s gone aloft, For in the last great thunder, Methought I heard her well known voice Rending the skies asunder. * * * * * On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep. Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife, Or, in one word, here lies a _scolding wife_; Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut, He durst not for his ears have touched the _slut_. * * * * * Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew, If I said I regretted her—I should lie too. * * * * * On a Scold. Here lies, thank God, a woman who Quarrell’d and stormed her whole life through, Tread gently o’er her mould’ring form, Or else you’ll raise another storm. * * * * * On a Wife (by her Husband). Here lies my poor wife, much lamented, She’s happy, and I’m contented. * * * * * One was our thought, One life we fought, One rest we both intended, Our bodies have to sleepe one grave, Our soules to God ascended. * * * * * Conjugal Epitaph. Here rest my spouse, no pair through life, So equal liv’d as we did; Alike we shared perpetual strife, Nor knew I rest till she did. * * * * * An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman. Another version. (From an old Book of Job.)