ON THE SAME.

Pope having submitted the preceding epitaph to Lady Mary Montague, she handed him the following one as more appropriate :

Here lies John Hughes and Sarah Drew-
Perhaps you'll say, what's that to you?
Believe me, friend, much may be said
On this poor couple that are dead.
On Sunday next they should have married;
But-see how oddly things are carried!
On Thursday last, it rained and lightened.
These tender lovers, sadly frightened,
Shelter'd beneath the cocking hay,
In hopes to pass the time away;
But the bold thunder found them out
(Commission'd for that end, no doubt),
And, seizing on their trembling breath,
Consign'd them to the shades of death.
Who knows if 'twas not kindly done?
For had they seen the next year's sun,
A beaten wife and cuckold swain
Had jointly curs'd the marriage chain:
Now they are happy in their doom,
For Pope has wrote upon their tomb.

ON A MAN AND HIS WIFE.

Stay, bachelor! if you have wit,
A wonder to behold;

Husband and wife, in one dark pit,

Lie still, and never scold.

Tread softly, though, for fear she wakes;
Hark! she begins already:

"You've hurt my head, my shoulders aches,

These sots can ne'er move steady."

Ah, friend! with happy freedom bless'd,

See how my wife's miscarried:

Not death itself can give you rest,

Unless you die unmarried.

ON A CHARMING YOUNG LADY.

On this marble drop a tear,-
Here lies poor Rosalind :

All mankind were pleas'd with her,
And she with all mankind.

ON ALGERNON SYDNEY.

Algernon Sydney fills this tomb;
An atheist! by disclaiming Rome;
A rebel bold, for striving still
To keep the law above the will,

And hind'ring those would tread 'em down,
To leave no limits to a crown;

Crimes damn'd by church and government.
But, oh, where must his soul be sent ?
Of heaven it ever must despair,
If that the pope be turnkey there!
And hell it ne'er can entertain,
For there is all tyrannic reign;
And purgatory's such pretence,
It ne'er receiv'd a man of sense.

Whither goes it, then? Why, where it ought to go;
Where neither pope nor devil have to do.

ON JOHN DENT, ESQ. AND HIS LADY.

In this cold bed, here consummated are
The second nuptials of a happy pair,

Whom envious death once parted,—but in vain,
For now himself hath made them one again.
Here wedded in the grave, and 'tis but just,
That they, that were one flesh, should be one dust!

ON DAME REBECCA BERRY, AGED FIFTY-TWO,
AT THE EAST END OF STEPNEY CHURCH.

Come, ladies,-you that would appear
Like angels fair, come dress you here;
Come dress you at this marble stone,
And make that humble grace your own,
Which once ordain'd as fair a mind
As e'er yet lodg'd in womankind.
So she was dress'd, whose humble life
Was free from pride, was free from strife;
Free from all envious broils and jars,—
Of human life, the civil wars.

She ne'er disturb'd her peaceful mind,
Which still was gentle, still was kind;
Her very looks, her garb and mien,
Disclos'd the humble soul within.
Trace her through every scene of life,
View her as widow, virgin, wife,
Still the same-humble she appears,
The same in youth, the same in years.
Go, ladies, now; and, if you'd be
As fair, as great, as good, as she,
Go, learn of her-humility.

ON CHARLES. EARL OF DORSET, IN THE
CHURCH OF WYTHAM, IN SUSSEX.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the muse's pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature-died!
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, or of knaves in state,.
Yet soft his nature, though severe his fate,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Blest satyrist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate and pity too;

Blest courtier ! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendship and his ease;
Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race,
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

IN POLTON CHURCH-YARD, LANCASHIRE.

Thomas Okey, the son of God, was born in London, 1608; came to this town, 1629; married Mary, the daughter of James Crampton, of Brightwit, 1635, with whom he lived comfortably twenty years, and begot four sons and six daughters; since then he lived sole to the day of his death. In this time were great changes and terrible alterations: eighteen years' civil war in England, besides many dreadful sea-fights; the crown and command of England changed eight times; episcopacy laid aside fourteen years; London burnt by Papists, and more stately built again; Germany wasted 300 miles; 200,000 Protestants murdered by Papists; this town twice stormed, once taken and plundered. He went through many troubles and divers conditions; found rest, joy, and happiness, only in holiness, the faith, fear, and love of God and Jesus Christ; died the 29th April, and lieth here buried, 1684.

Come, Lord Jesus!

O, come quickly.

ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE.
BY BEN JONSON.

Underneath this marble hearse,
Lies the subject of all verse:

Sidney's sister-Pembroke's mother.-
Death! ere thou hast slain another,

Fair, and learned, and good as she,

Time shall throw his dart at thee!

ON LADY CRISP.

Wit, beauty, honour, meekness, virtue, grace,
Crowned her in life, entomed in this place.
Ah! cruel death, if her thou wouldst not spare,
What must we look for, who far meaner are!

M

IN AN OBSCURE CHURCH-YARD, SCOTLAND,
Was the following, supposed to allude to the celebrated Marmion:

Here rests old Marmion hard is fate is,
That folks should read his tombstone—gratis.

ON A COALHEAVER, AT BERMONDSEY.

Cease to lament his change, ye just;

He's only gone

"from dust to dust."

The above inscription, in a church-yard at Radstock, in Germany, long puzzled alike the learned and unlearned. By accident the meaning was discovered; and the solution is equally remarkable for its ingenuity and for the morality it inculcates:

"O superbe quid superbis? tua superbia te superabit. Terra es, et in terram ibis. Mox eris quod ego nunc.”—“O vain man! why shouldest thou be proud? Thy pride will be thy ruin. Dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return. Soon shalt thou be what I am now."

IN DUNFERMLINE CHURCH-YARD.

Here lyes Andw. Robertson, present Deacon, and Convenor of the Weavers in this Burgh, who died Nov. 1762.