What! kill a partridge in the month of May! Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh?
On Du Bois, Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel.
Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath, Carte and tierce were his life, and a carte was his death.
As the birds were the first of the architect kind, And are still better builders than men, What wonders may spring from a Nightingale’s mind, When St. Paul’s was produced by a Wren.
Says Tom to Richard, “Churchill’s dead.” Says Richard, “Tom, you lie; Old Rancour the report has spread, But Genius cannot die.”
On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist, Who, several years before his death, lost one of his nether limbs.
Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve, Though his pickle was true Attic salt; One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve, Though his wit was known never to halt. A most precious limb and a rare precious pate, With one limb taken off for wise ends; Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait, Never failed to take off his best friends: Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice, Was his practice for pastime or pelf; For which ’twere no wonder, if both should rejoice At the day when he took off himself.
Hic jacet Jacobus Straw, Who forty years, Sir, followed the law, And when he died, The Devil cried, “Jemmy, gie’s your paw.”
Who kept the turnpike at Worcester, and was noted for having once demanded toll of George III., when his Majesty was going on a visit to Bishop Hurd.
On Wednesday last, old Robert Sleath Passed through the turnpike gate of death. To him would death no toll abate, Who stopped the King at Wor’ster gate.
Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery free Who long was a bookseller’s hack. He led such a damnable life in this world I don’t think he’ll ever come back.
Here’s a Remnant of life, and a Remnant of death, Taken off both at once in a Remnant of breath. To mortality this gives a happy release, For what was the Remnant, proves now the whole piece.
A form of enigmatical epitaph is in Llandham Churchyard, Anglesea, and has been frequently printed. From the _Cambrian Register_, 1795 (Vol. I. p. 441), I learn that it was translated by Jo. Pulestone, Feb. 5, 1666. The subject of it was Eva, daughter of Meredidd ap Rees ap Howel, of Bodowyr, and written by Arthur Kynaston, of Pont y Byrsley, son of Francis Kynaston.