When once I have discharged that mournful score,
Heaven hath decreed you ne'er shall cost me more,
Since you release and quit my borrow'd trust,
By taking this inheritance of dust.

BISHOP KING.

SONNET.

O longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly, sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it: for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. Oh! if, I say, you look upon this verse When I, perhaps, compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love e'en with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me, after I am gone.

SHAKESPEARE.

EPITAPH

ON MARIA WENTWORTH.

ND here the precious dust is laid,
Whose purely temper'd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betray'd.

Else the soul grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sin,
And so was born a cherubin.

In height it soar'd to God above,
In depth it did to knowledge move,
And spread in breadth to general love.

Before, a pious duty shined.
To parents courtesy behind;
On either side an equal mind.

Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
To servants kind, to friendship clear,
To nothing but herself severe.

So, though a virgin, yet a bride
To every grace, she justified
A chaste polygamy, and died.

Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
We owe this world, where virtue must,
Frail as our flesh, crumble to dust.

CAREW.

EPITAPH

ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS.

HE Lady Mary Villiers lies

Under this stone-with weeping eyes,
The parents that first gave her birth,

And their sad friends, laid her in earth.

If any of them, reader, were

Known unto thee, then shed a tear;
Or if thyself possess a gem

As dear to thee as this to them:

Though thou, a stranger to this place,
Bewail in theirs thine own hard case;
For thou, perhaps, at thy return,
Mayst find thy darling in an urn.

BEN JONSON.

EPITAPH.

HIS little vault, this narrow room,
Of love and beauty is the tomb.
The dawning beam, that 'gan to cheer
Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here.

'Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again;
A budding star, that might have grown
Into a sun, when it had blown.
This hopeful beauty did create
New life in Love's declining state.
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free;
His brand, his bow, let no man fear-
The flames, the arrows, all lie here.

BEN JONSON.

AT

INSCRIPTION

MELROSE

ABBEY.

HE earth buildeth on the earth castles

and towers;

The earth sayeth to the earth, "All shall

be ours ;"

The earth walketh on the earth, glistering like gold;

The earth goeth to the earth sooner than it wold.

UNKNOWN.

VERSES

ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

OU knew-who knew not? Astrophel,
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!)
Things known permit me to renew :
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say you hear-too much.

Within these woods of Arcady,

He chief delight and pleasure took;
And on the mountain Partheny,
Upon the crystal liquid brook,

The Muses met him every day,
That taught him song to write and say.

When he descended from the mount,
His personage seem'd most divine;
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely cheerful eyne.

To hear him speak and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.