Thou art so witty, profligate and thin,
At once we think thee Satan, Death and Sin.
The qualities all in a bee that we meet,
In an epigram never should fail;
The body should always be little and sweet,
And a sting should be felt in its tail.
EPITAPH
Here lies the remains of James Pady, Brickmaker, in hope that his clay will be remoulded in a workmanlike manner, far superior to his former perishable materials.
Stavo bene; per star meglio, sto qui.
I was well, I would be better; I am here.
Sufficit huic tumulus, cui non suffecerit orbis.
A tomb now suffices him for whom the whole world was not sufficient.
If Paris that brief flight allow,
My humble tomb explore!
It bears: "Eternity, be thou
My refuge!" and no more.
Here lies who, born a man, a grocer died.
Here lies Anne Mann; she lived an
Old maid and died an old Mann.
Bath Abbey.
Lie lightly on my ashes, gentle earthe.
| author = Beaumont and Fletcher
| work = Tragedy of Bonduca. ActrV. Sc. 3. ("Sit tibi terra levis,"
familiar inscription.)
| seealso = (See also Evans, Ovid, Seneca)
| topic = Epitaph
| page = 229
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 10
| text = <poem>And the voice of men shall call,
"He is fallen like us all,
Though the weapon of the Lord was in his hand:"
And thine epitaph shall be—
"He was wretched ev'n as we;"
And thy tomb may be unhonoured in the land.
Robert Buchanan—The Modern Warrior.
St. 7.
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me—
"Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."
Byron—Childe Harold. Canto IV. St. 10.
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
| author = Byron
| work = Giaour. L. 106.
Kind reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here Harold has—but where's his Epitaph?
If such you seek, try Westminster, and view
Ten thousand, just as fit for him as you.
Yet at the resurrection we shall see
A fair edition, and of matchless worth,
Free from erratas, new in heaven set forth.
Joseph Capen—Lines upon Mr. John Foster.
Borrowed from Rev. B. Woodbridge.
| seealso = (See also Franklin, Gedge, Meader, Quarles,
Smollett)
| topic = Epitaph
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Loe here the precious dust is layd;
Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betray'd.
Else the soule grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sinne
And so was hatch'd a cherubin.
Thos. Carew—Inscription on Tomb of Lady
Maria Wentworth. In Toddington Church,
Bedfordshire, England.
This Mirabeau's work, then, is done. He
sleeps with the primeval giants. He has gone
over to the majority: "Abiit ad plures."
Carlyle—Essay on Mirabeau. Close.
It is so soon that I am done for,
I wonder what I was begun for!
Epitaph in Cheltenham Churchyard.
Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;
The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.
Peas to his Hashes.
Underneath this crust
Lies the mouldering dust
Of Eleanor Batchelor Shoven,
Well versed in the arts
Of pies, custards and tarts,
And the lucrative trade of the oven.
When she lived long enough,
She made her last puff,
A puff by her husband much praised,
And now she doth he
And make a dirt pie,
In hopes that her crust may be raised.
What wee gave, wee have;
What wee spent, wee had;
What wee left, wee lost.
