A braver monument of stone or lime
No art can raise, for this shall outlast time.

Chiswick Church-Yard.

On a tomb erected to the memory of Dr. William
Rose, who died the 4th of July, 1786, aged 67.
Whoe'er thou art, with silent footsteps tread
The hallow'd mould where Rose reclines his head.
Ah! let not folly one kind tear deny,

But pensive pause, where truth and honor lie.
His the gay wit that fond attention drew,
Oft heard, and oft admir'd, yet ever new;
The heart that melted at another's grief;
The hand in secret that bestow'd relief;
Science untinctur'd with the pride of schools,
And native goodness free from formal rules.
With zeal thro' life he toil'd in learning's cause,
But more, fair virtue, to promote thy laws.
His ev'ry action sought the noblest end;
The tender husband, father, brother, friend!
Perhaps, e'en now, from yonder realm of day
To his lov'd relatives he sends a ray;
Pleas'd to behold. affections like his own
With filial duty raise this votive stone!

ON JOHN FLINT.

Beneath this stone lies John Flint,
If he gets up the devil's in't.

In Halesowen Church-Yard.

ON MISS ANNE POWEL.

Here, here she lies a budding rose,
Blasted before its bloom,

Whose innocence did sweets disclose
Beyond that flower's perfume.
To those who for her death are griev'd,
This consolation's given;

She 's from the storms of life reliev'd
To them more bright in heaven.

On a deceased Friend.

Here lies the ruin'd cabinet
Of a rich soul more highly set.
The dross and refuse of a mind,
Too glorious to be here confin'd.
Earth for a while bespake his stay,
Only to bait, and so away :

So that what here he doted on

Was mere accommodation.

Not that his active soul could be

At home, but in eternity.

Yet, while he blest us with the rays

Of his short continued days,

Each minute had its weight of worth,

Each pregnant hour some star brought forth.

So whilst he travell'd here beneath,
He liv'd when others only breathe:
For not a sand of time slip'd by
Without its action sweet as high.
So good, so peaceable, so blest,
Angels alone can speak the rest.

On an Old Maid.

Here lies a true maid, deformed and old,
That never was handsome, nor needed be told;
Tho' she ne'er had a lover, much friendship had met,
And thought all mankind quite out of her debt.
She ne'er could forgive, for she ne'er had resented;
As she never deny'd, so she never repented :

She lov'd the whole species, but some had distinguish'd,

But time and much thought had all passions extin

guish'd.

Tho' not foud of her station, content with her lot,

A favour receiv'd she had never forgot;

She rejoic'd in the good that her neighbours possess'd, A piety, purity, truth she profess'd.

She liv'd in much peace, but ne'er courted pleasure, Her book and her pen had her moments of leisure; Pleas'd with life, fond of health, yet fearless of death, Believing she lost not her soul with her breath.

St. Giles, Cripplegate.

(A translation)
JOHN FOX,

The faithful martyrologian of our English church;
A most discreet searcher

Into the antiquities of histories;
A most stiff bulwark and fighter
For the evangelical truth;

Which hath revived the martyrs as so many Phoenixes
From the dust of oblivion;

Died the 18th of April, 1587, in the 70th year of his age.

To whose pious memory

This monument is erected by his lamenting son Samuel Fox.

ON KING CHARLES II.

Here lies our sovereign lord the king,
Whose word no man relies on;

Who never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.

ON THE REV. MR. BEIGHTON, OF EGHAM,

Who was vicar of that place forty-five years. Near half an age, with ev'ry good man's praise, Among his flock the shepherd pass'd his days,

The friend, the comfort of the sick and poor.
Want never knock'd unheeded at his door;
Oft when his duty call'd, disease and pain
Strove to confine him, but they strove in vain;
All moan his death, his virtues long they try'd,
They knew not how they lov'd him till he dy'd':
Peculiar blessings did his life attend,

He had no foe, and Camden was his friend.

To the memory of
SIGNOR FIDO,

An Italian of good extraction,

Who came into England,

Not to bite us, like most of his countrymen,
But to gain an honest livelihood.

He hunted not after fame,
Yet acquired it.

Regardless of the praise of his friends,
But most sensible of their love,

Though he lived among the great,

He neither learnt nor flattered

He was no bigot,

any vice.

Though he doubted of none of the thirty-nine articles:
And if to follow nature,

And to respect the laws of society,
Be philosophy;

He was a perfect philosopher,