I now have fallen asleep—my troubles gone, For while on earth, I had full many a one, When I get up again—as Parson says, I hope that I shall see some better days. If Husband he should make a second suit His second wife will find that he’s a _brute_. He often made my poor sad heart to sigh, And often made me weep from _one poor eye_, The other he knocked out by a violent blow, As all my Kinsfolk and my Neighbours know. I hope he will not serve his next rib so, But if he should, will put the two together, And through them stare while Satan tans his leather. * * * * * On Jemmy Jewell. ’Tis odd, quite odd, that I should laugh, When I’m to write an epitaph. Here lies the bones of a rakish _Timmy_ Who was a _Jewell_ & a _Jemmy_. He dealt in diamonds, garnets, rings, And twice ten thousand pretty things; Now he supplies Old _Nick_ with fuel, And there’s an end of _Jemmy Jewell_. * * * * * On Thomas Knowles & his Wife. Thomas Knolles lies under this stone, And his wife Isabell: flesh and bone They were together nineteen year, And ten children they had in fear. His fader & he to this church Many good deed they did worch. Example by him may ye see, That this world is but vanity; For whether he be small or great, All shall turn to worms’ meat; This said Thomas was lay’d on beere, The eighth day the month Fevree, The date of Jesu Christ truly, Anno M.C.C.C. five & forty. We may not pray; heartily pray he, For our souls, Pater Noster and Ave. The swarer of our pains lissed to be, Grant us thy holy trinity. Amen. * * * * * On one stone, exhibiting a copy of that VERY RARE inscription beginning with “Afflictions sore,” the second line affords the following choice specimen of orthography:—“Physicians are in vain.” Think nothing strange, Chance happens unto all; My lot’s to-day, To-morrow yours may fall. Great afflictions I have had, Which wore my strength away; Then I was willing to submit Unto this bed of clay. * * * * * On Burbridge, the Tragedian. Exit Burbridge. * * * * * On the late Mr. Suett. Here lies to mix with kindred earth, A child of wit, of Glee and Mirth; Hush’d are those powers which gave delight; And made us laugh in reason’s spite: Thy “gibes and jests shall now no more Set all the rabble in a roar.” Sons of Mirth, and Humour come, And drop a tear on Suett’s Tomb; Nor ye alone, but all who view it, Weep and Exclaim, Alas Poor Suett. * * * * * On the Tomb of a Murdered Man.