That love that living made us two but one, Wishes at last we both may have this tomb. The head of Gostlin still continues here, As kept for Legge, to whom it was so dear. By death he lives, for ever to remain, And Gostlin hopes to meet him once again.
Sarah York this life did resigne On May the 13th, 79.
Here lies the body of honest Tom Page, Who died in the 33rd year of his age.
On Bryant Lewis, who was barbarously murdered upon the heath near Thetford, Sept. 13, 1698.
Fifteen wide wounds this stone veils from thine eyes, But reader, hark their voice doth pierce the skies. Vengeance, cried Abel’s blood against cursed Cain, But better things spake Christ when he was slain. Both, both, cries Lewis ’gainst his barbarous foes, Blood, Lord, for blood, but save his soul from woe,
Though Death hath seized on me as his prey, Yet all must know we have a judgment day, Therefore whilst life on earth in you remain, Praise all your God who doth your lives maintain, That after death to glory he may us raise, Yield to His Majesty honour, laud, and praise.
The phœnix of his time Lies here but sordid clay; His thoughts were most sublime; His soul is sprung away. Then let this grave keep in protection His ashes until the resurrection,
The night is come; for sleep, lo! here I stay, My three sweet babes sleep here—we wait for day. That we may rise, and up to bliss ascend, Where crowns and thrones, and robes shall us attend. Thy worst is past, O Death; thous’t done thy part, Thou could’st but kill, we fear no second dart.
Weep, widows, orphans; all your late support, Himself is summon’d to a higher court: Living he pleaded yours, but with this clause, That Christ at death should only plead his cause.
Under this stone, in easy slumber lies Two dusty bodies, that at last shall rise: Their parted atoms shall again rejoin, Be cast into new moulds by hands divine.
Though we did live so many years, Prepare, O youth, for Death, For if he should at noon appear, You must give up your breath.
Here lies Will Salter, honest man, Deny it, Envy, if you can; True to his business and his trust, Always punctual, always just; His horses, could they speak, would tell They loved their good old master well. His up-hill work is chiefly done, His stage is ended, race is run; One journey is remaining still, To climb up Sion’s holy hill. And now his faults are all forgiven, Elijah-like, drives up to heaven, Takes the reward of all his pains, And leaves to other hands the reins.