"Dicite qui legitis, _solito de more_, sepulto, Pro meritis, Pylade, _sit tibi terra levis_!"
Again, in the sepulchral dialogue supposed to pass between Atimetus and Homonoea--
"_Sit tibi terra levis_, mulier dignissima vita!"
"Et mihi _non ullo pondere terra_ foret."
"Di majorum umbris _tenuem et sine pondere terram_, Spirantesque crocos, et in urna perpetuum ver!"
"Non _levior cippus nunc imprimit ossa_? ... nunc non e manibus illis, Nunc non e tumulo fortunataque favilla Nascentur violæ?"
On the contrary, _Sit tibi terra gravis_ and _Urgeat ossa lapis_ were usual maledictions, the ancients supposing that the soul remained for some time after death with the body, and was partner in its confinement. The latter of these wishes is ludicrously adopted by Dr Evans, in his epitaph on Sir J. Vanbrugh--
"_Lie heavy on him, earth!_ for he Laid many a heavy weight on thee."
It may be observed that such ideas, however poetical, have no great degree of propriety when introduced into Christian elegies, as we have no belief that the soul is in danger of being oppressed by a monument or stifled in a grave.--_Steevens._
[8] These customs are still preserved by the inferior ranks of females in different parts of the kingdom. Among others, they frequently fast on St Agnes' Eve, and at the same time make use of several singular rites and ceremonies; all which are described and ridiculed in Gay's comedy of the "Wife of Bath." See also ["Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," 1870, i. 20, _et alibi_.]
EARTH. I do not more rejoice in all my stores, My wealthy bags, fill'd garners, crowded chests, And all the envi'd heaps that I have glean'd With so long care and labour, than I do In thy most frugal nature, Theodore, Concurring just with mine. In thee, my son, I see, methinks, a perpetuity Of all the projects which my soul has hatch'd, And their rich fruits: I see my happiness, When I consider what great hoards of wealth, With long care rak'd together, I have seen Even in a moment scatter'd; when I view The gaudy heirs of thriving aldermen Fleeting like short-liv'd bubbles into air, And all that fire expiring in one blaze, That was so long a-kindling. But do thou, Do thou, my son, go on, and grow in thrift; It is a virtue that rewards itself. 'Tis matterless in goodness who excels; He that hath coins hath all perfections else.