HERE lies an old soldier, whom all must applaud,
Since he suffer'd much hardship at home and abroad,
But the hardest engagement he ever was in,
Was the battle of self in the conquest of sin.
IN THE CHURCH OF KIRKBY STEPHEN,
WESTMORELAND.
ON THOMAS THE FIRST LORD WHARTON,
Who lies buried with his two Wives, Eleanor and Anne.
HERE I, Thomas Wharton, do 'lie,
With Lucifer under my head,
And Nelly my wife hard by,
And Nancy as cold as lead:
O how can I speak without dread!
Who could my sad fortune abide !
With one devil under my head,
And another laid close on each side.
AT Delphos shrine one did a doubt propound,
Which by the oracle must be released,
Whether of poets were the best renown'd,
Those that survive, or those that be deceased. ⠀ The God made answer, by divine suggestion, i While SPENSER is alive, it is no question.
THIS INSCRIPTION IS ON THE FAMILY VAULT OF
SIR HENRY POLLEXFEN.
WHO lies heere? whie dont e ken?
The family of Pollexfen;
Who, bee they living, or bee they dead,
Like theirre own house over theirre head,
That when'er theirre Saviour comme,
They allwaies may bee found at homme.
IN THE CHANCEL OF STEPNEY CHURCH.
ON BISHOP KITTE.
UNDYR this ston, closyde and marmorate,
Lyeth JOHN KITTE, LONDONER, natyffe.
Encreasyng in vertues, rose to hygh estate,
In the fourth Edward's chapell, by his young lyffe,
Syth whych the seventh Henryes service primatyffe,
Proceeding stil in vertuous efficase,
To be in favour with this our Kynges grase.
With witt endewed, chosen to be legate,
Sent into Spayne, where he right joyfully
Combyned both prynces, in pease most amate.
In Grece archbyshop elected worthely,
And last of Cartyel ralyng pastorally,
Keeping nobly household wyth grete hospitality,
One thousand five hundryd thirty and sevyn;
Invyterate wyth pastoral carys, consumyd wyth age,
The nineteenth of Jun reckonyd full evyn,
Passyd to Hevyn from worldly pylgramage.
Of who's soul goode pepul of cherite,
Prey, as ye wod be preyd for; for thus must ye lie. 1.Jesu mercy. Lady helpe.
THE image of our frailty, painted glasse,
Shewes where St. Alban's life and ending was:
A knight beheads the martyr, but see soone,
His eyes dropt out, seeing what they had done,
And leaving their own head, seem'd with a tear
To wayle the other head, lay mangled there;
Because his eyes before, no teares would shed,
His eyes like teares themselves fell from his head.
O miracle, that when ST. ALBAN dyes,
The murtherer himselfe weepes out his eyes.
ON MARY GARNER.
O, deare mother, you are gone before,
And I a ratch waite at the dore.
Sin doth not only keepe me thens,
But makes me loth to go from hens.
When Christ hath heald me of my sin,
Heel macke me tite, and let me in.
This was her darter Abigal's desire.
UPTON GREY, HAMPSHIRE.
LADY DOROTHY EYRE, 1560.
SLEEPE, my good lady, sleepe; enjoy your rest: Some daughters have been wise, but you the best.
UPON AN ANCIENT KNIGHT,
SIR JERNEGAN.
Buried cross-legged at Somerly, in Suffolk.
JESUS CHRIST, both God and man,
Save thy servant JERNEGAN.
Who died of a broken heart, from excessive love of her husband.
Written by the husband.
THESE lines with golden letters I have fill'd,
Here lies that wife whose husband's kindness kill'd.
HERE lyes rich HEWET, a gentleman of note,
For why he gave three owles in his coate,
Ye see he is buried in the church of ST. PAUL,
He was wise, because rich, and now you know all.
ON A POOR LABOURING MAN. HONEST, industrious, without guile or art, His task performing with a cheerful heart, Tho' poor, contented his short race he run, His labour ceasing with each setting sun; For good received his grateful thanks would flow, The best, the only boon he could bestow. So pass'd his days; and, having done his best, This honest, faithful poor man sunk to rest,
WRITTEN ON THE SPOT WHERE CARDINAL WOLSEY IS
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN BURIED, IN
LEICESTER ABBEY.
PEERS, priests and princes, lords of every clan,
Who in the title's vapour lose the man:
Mark this plain spot, where groveling brambles wave,
In humble verdure over WOLSEY's grave:
His purple honours and pontific pride,
With all life's baubles now are laid aside;
Here stripp'd to nature, and without disguise,
The child of fortune undistinguish'd lies ;
O'er his cold turf th' unmanner'd travellers go,
Nor heed how great a statesman rots below.
ON A LAWYER.
HIC JACET, JACOBUS STRAW,
Who forty years follow'd the law;
When he dyed,
The devil cryed,
JAMES, give us your paw.
An ill yeare of a GOODYER us bereft,
Who, gon to God, much lacke of him here left,
Full of good gifts, of body and of minde,"
Wise, comely, learned, eloquent and kind.
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