Her body is disposed of well, A comely grave doth hide her, I’m sure her soul is not in hell, For old Nick could ne’er abide her.
Which makes me guess she’s gone aloft, For in the last great thunder, Methought I heard her well known voice Rending the skies asunder.
On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep.
Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife, Or, in one word, here lies a _scolding wife_; Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut, He durst not for his ears have touched the _slut_.
Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew, If I said I regretted her—I should lie too.
Here lies, thank God, a woman who Quarrell’d and stormed her whole life through, Tread gently o’er her mould’ring form, Or else you’ll raise another storm.
Here lies my poor wife, much lamented, She’s happy, and I’m contented.
One was our thought, One life we fought, One rest we both intended, Our bodies have to sleepe one grave, Our soules to God ascended.
Here rest my spouse, no pair through life, So equal liv’d as we did; Alike we shared perpetual strife, Nor knew I rest till she did.
An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman. Another version. (From an old Book of Job.)
We lived one and twenty yeare, Like man and wife together; I could no longer have her heere, She’s gone, I know not whither. If I could guesse, I doe professe, (I speak it not to flatter) Of all the women in the worlde, I never would come at her. Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave doth hide her, And sure her soule is not in hell, The fiend could ne’er abide her. I think she mounted up on hie, For in the last great thunder, Mee thought I heard her voice on hie, Rending the clouds in sunder.
Within this place a vertvous virgin lies, Much like those virgins that were counted wise, Her lamp of life by Death being now pvt ovt, Her lamp of grace doth still shine rovnd abovt, And thovgh her body here doth sleep in clay, Yet is her sovl still watchfvl for that day, When Christ the Bridegroom of her sovl shall come, To take her with him to the wedding roome.
Here lies a virgin cropt in youth, A Xtian both in name and truth, Forbear to mourn, she is not dead, But gone to marry Christ her head.
Here lies the body of Mary Sextone, Who pleased three men, and never vexed one, That she can’t say beneath the next stone.