on Tuesday, 17th May, 1782. He was a cheerful companion, and a sincere friend: his frailties (few) rest upon the bosom of his God: his virtues make his memory revered amongst his numerous acquaintance. His life was amiable, his death lamented.

This inscription was engraven by a friend on his tomb, as a lasting testimony of friendship, and for a memento to his youthful companions, and others whom chance may lead to visit this shrine, not to go unprepared for their final dissolution, which may be as sudden and dreadful as his :Drop, youthful passenger, the friendly tear Of sympathy, of soft compassion, here; And since not youth, in all its blooming pride, Death's fatal stroke can alter or avoid,

Learn so to spend thy short, uncertain day,

That thou canst brave his power, and take his sting away.

IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF ST. ANNE, SOHO, Is the following Epitaph on Theodore, King of Corsica. It is from the pen of Horace Walpole.

Near this place is interred
Theodore, King of Corsica,

Who died in this Parish, Dec. 11, 1756,
Immediately after leaving the
King's Bench Prison,

In

By the Benefit of the Act of Insolvency;
consequence of which, he registered
His Kingdom of Corsica,

For the use of his creditors.

The grave, great teacher, to a level brings,
Heroes, and beggars, galley-slaves, and kings:
But Theodore this moral learn'd, ere dead;
Fate pour'd its lessons on his living head,
Bestow'd a kingdom, and denied him bread.

IN WHITTLESEA CHURCY-YARD, ELY.
Here lieth the body of Elizabeth
Addison-John her son,

And Old Roger to come.

ON ROBERT PRESTON,

Formerly Drawer at the Boar's Head, in East Cheap.
Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise,
Produc'd one sober son, and here he lies.
Tho' nurs'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd
The charms of wine, and every vice beside;
O, reader! if to honesty inclin'd,

Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind;
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,
Had sundry virtues that outweigh'd his faults;
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,
Pray copy Bob,-in measure and attendance.

ON A YOUNG GENTLEMAN,

Who died for Love of a Married Lady. Here lies a youth, who fell a sacrifice, In his first bloom, to fair Amelia's eyes. Whom shall we blame?—Her duty was her guard, And his injustice was its own reward;

(If he's unjust whose reason cannot prove
Of force enough against imperious love.)

The aspiring youth who scorn'd to stoop so low,
To take what pity only could bestow,
Still wish'd for more; 'till, in the fatal strife,
He sunk beneath the virtue of a wife;
Resign'd his blood to quench a guilty flame,—
But crimes of love deserve a gentler name.
And must I neither praise him, nor condemn,
For I would die, to be bewail'd like him;
Since she, whose pity deny'd to save,
Now pours her fruitless tears upon his

grave.

AT COLESHILL, WARWICKSHIRE,

ON A MAN WHO HAD A REMARKABLE WIDE MOUTH.

Here lies a man, as God shall me save,
Whose mouth was wide, as is his grave;
Reader! tread lightly o'er his sod,
For, if he gapes, you're gone, by G-d.

IN CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.
He that's imprison'd in this narrow roome,
Wer't not for custom, needs nor verse nor tomb
Nor can from there a memory be lent,

;

To him who must be his tomb's monument.
And by the virtue of his lasting fame,
Must make his tomb live long, not his name;
For, when this gaudie monument is gone,
Children of th' unborn world shall spye the stone
That covers him, and to their fellows crye,
'Tis here, 'tis here about, does Berkeley lye.
To build his tomb, then, is not thought so safe,
Where virtue must outlive his epitaph.

AT

ST. EDMUND'S, SARUM.-RICHARDUS VENNARD.

Yf yt be lawfull for a rurall penne

To write of matters touchyng heavenlye power,
Or to renew a great complainte for them

Whose vertuous deedes have gained, in happy howre,
A place with God, then give me leave to tell
Of such a losse whose lyke hathe nere befell;
Anne Venard, shee whose corps interred here,
Whose soule in blisse, whose vertues live on earth,
A mother thrice, yea, thrice a mother deare,
Whose godly lyfe, abridged by fatail death,
Makes me complayne; and, from a sighing hearte,
Doe with that peace (thoughe not by my deserte)
Whilste she did lyve: her vertues likewise lyvde
Now shee is deade, they are again reviv'd;
Each one that knew hir sayd she liv'd to dye,
And yet, nowe deade, hir praise they ratifye.
This me contents: hope sayes that we shall meete
With all joy in throane of heavenlye seate.

Mors mortis morti mortem nisi morte dedisset,
Æternæ vitæ janua clausa seret.
An. 1586.

AT ST. MARTIN, PARIS.

Postellus postquam peragravit plurima passus
Pro pietate polos Parisiis Petiit.

Obiit sexto Septembris, 1681.
Mærens ponebat—Adrianus Tartrier
Medicus.

This is on Guillaume Postel, famous for his learning and humour. The two lines have nothing remarkable but the alliteration. He died at Paris in September, 1681; and had a monument, with the above inscription, erected to his memory by Dr. A. Tartrier.

IN CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.

Sacred to the Memory of William Prude, Esq., Lieuteant-Colonel in the Belgick wars; slain at the siege of Maesricht, the 12th of July, 1632.

Stand, soldiers; ere you march by way of charge,

Take an example here that may enlarge

Your minds to noble actions. Here, in peace,
Rests one whose life was war, whose rich increase
Of fame and honour from his valour grew,
Unbegg'd, unbought; for what he won he drew
By just desert, having in service been

A soldier till near sixty, from sixteen
Years of his active life; continually
Fearless of death, yet still prepar'd to die
In his religious thoughts;-for, 'midst all harms,
He bore as much of piety as of arms.

Now, soldiers, on, and fear not to intrude
The gates of death by example of this Prude.

He married Mary, the daughter of Sir Adam Sprakeling, Knt., and had issue by her four sons and three daughters, to whose memory his surviving son, Searles Prude, hath erected this monument.

ON A PARISH CLERK.

Here lies within this tomb, so calm,

Old Giles,-pray sound his knell;

Who thought no song was like a psalm,-
No music like a bell.

AT BURY ST. EDMUND'S, SUFFOLK.

Here lies Jane Kitchen,

Who when her glass was spent,

She kickt up her heels,

And away she went.