The next epitaph from Newark, Nottinghamshire, furnishes a chapter of local history:--
Sacred to the memory Of HERCULES CLAY, Alderman of Newark, Who died in the year of his Mayoralty, Jan. 1, 1644. On the 5th of March, 1643, He and his family were preserved By the Divine Providence From the thunderbolt of a terrible cannon Which had been levelled against his house By the Besiegers, And entirely destroyed the same. Out of gratitude for this deliverance, He has taken care To perpetuate the remembrance thereof By an alms to the poor and a sermon; By this means Raising to himself a Monument More durable than Brass.
The thund'ring Cannon sent forth from its mouth the devouring Flames Against my Household Gods, and yours, O Newark. The Ball, thus thrown, Involved the House in Ruin; But by a Divine Admonition from Heaven I was saved, Being thus delivered by a strength Greater than that of Hercules, And having been drawn out of the deep Clay, I now inhabit the stars on high. Now, Rebel, direct thy unavailing Fires at Heaven, Art thou afraid to fight against God--thou Who hast been a Murderer of His People? Thou durst not, Coward, scatter thy Flames Whilst Charles is lord of earth and skies.
Also of his beloved wife MARY (by the gift of God) Partaker of the same felicity.
Wee too made one by his decree That is but one in Trinity, Did live as one till death came in And made us two of one agen; Death was much blamed for our divorce, But striving how he might doe worse By killing th' one as well as th' other, He fairely brought us both togeather, Our soules together where death dare not come, Our bodyes lye interred beneath this tomb, Wayting the resurrection of the just, O knowe thyself (O man), thou art but dust.[2]
It is stated that Charles II., in a gay moment, asked Rochester to write his epitaph. Rochester immediately wrote:--
Here lies our mutton-eating king, Whose word no man relied on; Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one.
On which the King wrote the following comment:--
If death could speak, the king would say, In justice to his crown, His _acts_ they were the ministers's, His words they were his own.
Mr. Thomas Broadbent Trowsdale tells us: "In the fine old church of Chepstow, Monmouthshire, nearly opposite the reading-desk, is a memorial stone with the following curious acrostic inscription, in capital letters:--