A long affliction did my life attend, But time with patience brought it to an end, And now my body rests with Mother clay, Until the joyful resurrection day.
Written on Montmaur, A man of excellent memory, but deficient in judgment.
In this black surtout reposes sweetly, Montmaur of happy memory, _awaiting his judgement_.
Here lies a head that often ached; Here lie two hands that always shak’d; Here lies a brain of odd conceit; Here lies a heart that often beat; Here lie two eyes that dimly wept, And in the night but seldom slept; Here lies a tongue that whining talk’d;— Here lie two feet that feebly walked; Here lie the midriff and the breast, With loads of indigestion prest; Here lives the liver full of bile, That ne’er secreted proper chyle; Here lie the bowels, human tripes, Tortured with wind and twisting gripes; Here lies the livid dab, the spleen, The source of life’s sad tragic scene, That left side weight that clogs the blood, And stagnates Nature’s circling flood; Here lies the back, oft racked with pains, Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins; Here lies the skin by scurvy fed, With pimples and irruptions red; Here lies the man from top to toe, That fabric fram’d for pain and woe.
Lie heavy on him, earth! for he Laid many heavy loads on thee.
The following Epitaph was written by Shakespeare on Mr. Combe, an old gentleman noted for his wealth and usury:—
“_Ten in the hundred_ lies here ingraved: ’Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not saved: If any man ask, Who lies in this tomb? Oh! oh! QUOTH THE DEVIL, ’TIS MY JOHN-A-COMBE.”
His card is cut; long days he shuffled through The game of Life; he dealt as others do. Though he by honours tells not its amount, When the last trump is played his tricks will count.
Stay, bachelor, if you have wit, A wonder to behold: Husband and wife, in one dark pit, Lie still and never scold.
Tread softly tho’ for fear she wakes;— Hark, she begins already: You’ve hurt my head;—my shoulder akes; These sots can ne’er move steady.
Ah friend, with happy freedom blest! See how my hopes miscarry’d: Not death can give me rest, Unless you die unmarry’d.
Here lie the remains of Thomas Woodhen, The most amiable of Husbands, and the most excellent of men.