Middlesex.
STEPNEY.
On Mary Angel.
To say an angel here interr’d doth lye,
May be thought strange, for angels never dye;
Indeed some fell from heav’n to hell;
Are lost and rise no more;
This only fell from death to earth,
Not lost, but gone before;
Her dust lodg’d here, her soul perfect in grace,
Among saints and angels now hath took its place.
On Daniel Saul.
Here lies the body of Daniel Saul,
Spitalfield’s weaver—and that’s all.
William Wheatly.
Whoever treadeth on this stone,
I pray you tread most neatly;
For underneath the same doth lie
Your honest friend, Will Wheatly.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
(In the Abbey.)
Beneath this stone there lies a scull,
Which when it breath’d was wondrous droll;
But now ’tis dead and doom’d to rot,
This scull’s as wise, pray is it not?
As Shakspear’s, Newton’s, Prior’s, Gay’s,
The Wits, the sages of their days.
On John Ellis.
Life is certain, Death is sure,
Sin’s the wound, and Christ’s the cure.
On Admiral Blake,
Who died in August, 1657.
Here lies a man made Spain and Holland shake,
Made France to tremble, and the Turks to quake;
Thus he tam’d men, but if a lady stood
In ’s sight, it rais’d a palsy in his blood;
Cupid’s antagonist, who on his life
Had fortune as familiar as a wife.
A stiff, hard, iron soldier, for he
It seems had more of Mars than Mercury;
At sea he thunder’d, calm’d each rising wave,
And now he’s dead sent thundering to his grave.
In Parliament, a Burgess Cole was placed,
In Westminster the like for many Years,
But now with Saints above his Soul is graced,
And lives a Burgess with Heav’n’s Royal Peers.
HAMPSTEAD.
Underneath where as you see,
There lies the body of Simon Tree.
ST. BENNET, PAUL’S WHARF.
Here lies one More, and no More than he,
One More, and no More! how can that be?
Why one More and no More may well lie here alone,
But here lies one More, and that’s More than one.
ST. LAWRENCE JEWRY.
On William Bird.
One charming Bird to Paradise is flown,
Yet are we not of comfort quite bereft:
Since one of this fair brood is still our own,
And still to cheer our drooping souls is left.
This stays with us while that his flight doth take,
That earth and skies may one sweet concert make.
ST. ANDREW’S.
On Walter Good.
A thing here singular this doth unfold,
Name and nature due proportion hold;
In real goodness who did live his days,
He cannot fail to die well, to his praise.
ST. GILES, CRIPPLEGATE.
On Gervase Aire.
Under this marble fair,
Lies the body entomb’d of Gervase Aire:
He dyd not of an ague fit,
Nor surfeited by too much wit,
Methinks this was a wondrous death,
That Aire should die for want of breath.
ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL.
On Sir Henry Croft.
Six lines this image shall delineate:—
High Croft, high borne, in spirit & in virtue high,
Approv’d, belov’d, a Knight, stout Mars his mate,
Love’s fire, war’s flame, in heart, head, hand, & eye;
Which flame war’s comet, grace, now so refines,
That pined in Heaven, in Heaven and Earth it shines.
HENDON.
Poor Ralph lies beneath this roof, and sure he must be blest,
For though he could do nothing, he meant to do the best,
Think of your soules, ye guilty throng,
Who, knowing what is right, do wrong.
On Mr. Sand.
Who would live by others’ breath?
Fame deceives the dead man’s trust.
Even our names much change by death,
Sand I was, but now am Dust.
On Robert Thomas Crosfield, M.D. 1802, written by himself.
Beneath this stone Tom Crosfield lies,
Who cares not now who laughs or cries;
He laughed when sober, and, when mellow,
Was a harum scarum heedless fellow;
He gave to none design’d offence;
So “Honi soit qui mal y pense!”
EDMONTON.
In the churchyard on a headstone now removed, was the following inscription to William Newberry, who was
hostler to an inn & died 1695, in consequence of having taken improper medicine given him by a fellow servant.
Hic jacet-Newberry Will
Vitam finivit-cum Cochiœ Pill
Quis administravit-Bellamy Sue
Quantum quantitat-nescio, scisne tu?
Ne sutor ultra crepidam.
LAMBETH.
R. Brigham.
The Father, Mother, Daughter, in one Grave,
Lye slumbering here beneath the marble Stone;
Three, one in Love, in Tomb, in hope to have
A joyful sight of him that’s Three in One.
HILLINGDON.
On Stephen King.
Farewell, vain world, I knew enough of thee,
And now am careless what thou say’st of me,
Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear,
My soul’s at rest, my head lies quiet here.
What faults you see in me, take care to shun,
And look at home, enough’s there to be done.
ISLINGTON.
transcript of an inscription
With the abbreviations and spelling, as it was taken from
the plate itself, June 28th, 1751.
I pye the Crysten man that hast goe to see this:
to pye for the soulls of them that here buryed is |
And remember that in Cryst we be bretherne:
the wich hath comaundid eu’ry man to py for other |
This sayth Robert Midleton & Johan his Wyf.
Here wrappid in clay. Abiding the mercy |
Of Almyghty god till domesdaye.
Wych was sutyme s’unt to s’ gorge hasting knyght |
Erle of huntingdunt passid this tnscitory lyf,
in the yere of our Lord god m cccc...... |
And the......day of the moneth of ......
On whose soull Almyghty god have m’cy amen |“This Inscription (says a writer in The Gentleman’s Magazine, for 1751) was in Gothic letters, on a plate of brass, in the middle aisle, on the floor near the entrance into the chancel. It contains six lines, the end of each is marked thus |; and it appears to have been laid down in the life-time of Robert Midleton, because neither the year, day, nor month are set down, but spaces left for that purpose. I observe, that the inhabitants of Islington want to make their church older than I presume it is, and quote this inscription as it is in Strype, 1401, in support of that notion, when it is plain 1500, and is all that it says; and Sir G. Hastings was not created Earl of Huntingdon till the 8th of December, 1529, so that this inscription must be wrote after that time. The oldest date that appears anywhere about the church, is at the south-east corner of the steeple, and was not visible till the west gallery was pulled down, it is 1483; but as these figures are of a modern shape, it looks as if it was done in the last century; the old way of making these characters was in Arabic, and not as they are now generally made.”
She’s gone: so, reader, must you go. But where?
On Lady Molesworth.
A peerless matron, pride of female life,
In every state, as widow, maid, or wife;
Who, wedded to threescore, preserv’d her fame,
She lived a phœnix, and expired in flame.
ST. AUGUSTIN’S CHURCH.
William Lamb.
O Lamb of God which Sin didst take away,
And as a Lamb was offered up for Sin.
Where I poor Lamb went from thy Flock astray,
Yet thou, O Lord, vouchsafe thy Lamb to Winn
Home to thy flock, and hold thy Lamb therein,
That at the Day when Lambs and Goats shall sever,
Of thy choice Lambs, Lamb may be one for ever.
TEMPLE CHURCH.
Mary Gaudy, Aged 22, 1671.
This fair young Virgin for a nuptial Bed
More fit, is lodg’d (sad fate!) among the Dead,
Storm’d by rough Winds, so falls in all her pride,
The full blown rose design’d t’ adorn a Bride.
KENSINGTON.
Here are deposited the remains of Mrs. Ann Floyer, the beloved wife of Mr. Rd Floyer, of Thistle Grove, in this parish, died on Thursday, the 8th of May, /23. God hath chosen her as a pattern for the other angels.
TEMPLE CHURCH.
Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest,
Till it be called for, let it rest;
For while this jewel here is set,
The grave is but a cabinet.
STEPNEY.
My wife she’s dead, and here she lies,
There’s nobody laughs, and nobody cries;
Where she’s gone, and how she fares,
Nobody knows, and nobody cares.
ST. DUNSTAN.
Here lies Dame Dorothy Peg,
Who never had issue except in her leg,
So great was her art, and so deep was her cunning,
Whilst one leg stood still the other kept running.
CHISWICK.
The illustrious Hogarth is buried in this churchyard, and the following lines, by David Garrick, are inscribed on his tomb:—
Farewell! great painter of mankind,
Who reached the noblest point of art,
Whose pictur’d morals charm the mind,
And through the eye correct the heart.
If genius fire thee, reader stay,
If nature move thee, drop a tear,
If neither touch thee, turn away,
For Hogarth’s honour’d dust lies here.
ST. MICHAEL’S, CROOKED LANE,
Here lyeth, wrapt in clay,
The body of William Wray;
I have no more to say.
ST. ANNE’S, SOHO.
On Theodore, King of Corsica, written by Horace Walpole.
Near this place is interred.
Theodore, King of Corsica,
Who died in this parish Dec. 11, 1756,
Immediately after leaving the King’s Bench prison,
By the benefit of the Act of Insolvency,
In consequence of which he resigned
His Kingdom of Corsica
For the use of his creditors.The grave great teacher to a level brings
Heroes and beggars, galley slaves and kings,
But Theodore this moral learn’d ere dead,
Fate pour’d its lessons on his living head,
Bestowed a kingdom and denied him bread.