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EPITAPH OF BY-WORDS.
HERE lies a round woman, who thought mighty odd
Ev'ry word she e'er heard in this church about God.
To convince her of God the good dean did endeavour;
But still in her heart she held Nature more clever.
Tho' he talk'd much of virtue, her head always run
Upon something or other she found better fun:
For the dame, by her skill in affairs astronomical,
Imagin'd, to live in the clouds was but comical.
In this world she despis'd ev'ry soul she met here;
And now she's in t'other, she thinks it but queer.
EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH.
SIR, I admit your gen'ral rule,
That ev'ry poet is a fool:
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.
EPITAPH.
WELL then, poor G—— lies under ground!
So there's an end of honest Jack.
So little justice here he found,
'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.
