At Brightwell, Oron. On S. Rumbold, born February, 1582:
He lived one hundred and five, Sanguine and strong; A hundred to five, You live not so long. Dy'd March 4, 1687.
This is all that remains of poor Ben Hough He had forty-nine years and that was enough. Of worldly goods he had his share, And now he's gone to the Devil's snare.
Close behind this stone Here lies alone Captain Reynolds Marvin, Expecting his wife When ends her life, And we both are freed from sarvin'.
Here lies the body of Captain Gervase Scrope, of the family of the Scropes of Bilton, in the county of York, who departed this life 26th August, Anno Domini 1705, aged 66.
An epitaph written by himself, in the agony and doloroes paines of the gout, and died soon after.
Here lies an old toss'd tennis ball. Was racketted from spring to fall. With so much heat and so much frost, Time's arms for shame grew ty'rd at last. Four kings in camps he truly served, And from his loyalty ne'er swerved. Father ruin'd, the son slighted, And from the Crown ne'er requited. Loss of Estate, Relations, Blood, Was too well known, but did no good. With long campaigns and paines o' th' Gout, He could no longer hold it out. Always a restless life he led, Never at quiet till quite dead. He married in his latter days One who exceeds the common praise; But wanting health still to make known Her true affection and his own, Death kindly came, all wants supply'd, By giving Rest which life deny'd.
From a tombstone near Williamsport, Penn.:
Sacred to the Memory of HENRY HARRIS, Born June 27th, 1821, of Henry Harris And Jane his Wife. Died on the 4th of May, 1837, by the kick of a colt in his bowels.
Peaceable and quiet, a friend to his father and mother, and respected by all who knew him, and went to the world where horses don't kick, where sorrow and weeping is no more.
O Death, thy call was soon, My pains were smart, But I, prepared, Was ready to depart In hopes to Heaven, there to sit With Saints and Angels bright, Singing Hallelujahs In which I took delight.
Tread softly mortals o'er the bones Of this world's wonder, Captain Jones, Who told his glorious deeds to many Yet never was believed by any. Posterity let this suffice He swore all's true, yet here he lies.