Monmouthshire.

CHEPSTOW.

Here or elsewhere (all’s one to you or me),
Earth, air, or water, gripes my ghostly dust,
None knows how soon to be by fire set free;
Reader, if you an old try’d rule will trust,
You’ll gladly do and suffer what you must.
My time was spent in serving you and you.
And death’s my pay, it seems, and welcome too.
Revenge destroying but itself, while I
To birds of prey leave my old cage and fly;
Examples preach to the eye—care then (mine says)
Not how you end, but how you spend your days.

For thirty years secluded from mankind,
Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison. Not to him
Did Nature’s fair varieties exist,
He never saw the sun’s delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars he poured
A sad and broken splendour.

In the passage leading from the nave to the north aisle in this church, is interred the body of Henry Marten, one of the Judges who presided at the trial of Charles 1st with the following Epitaph over him, written by himself:—

Here Sept. 9th 1680,
was buried
A true born Englishman.
Who, in Berkshire was well known
To love his country’s freedom like his own,
But being immured full twenty years,
Had time to write as doth appear.

MATHERN.

John Lee is dead, that good old man,
You ne’er will see him more,
He used to wear an old brown Coat,
All buttoned down before.

Here lyeth entombed the body of Theodoric, King of Morganuch, or Glamorgan, commonly called St. Theodoric, and accounted a martyr, because he was slain in a battle against the Saxons (being then Pagans) and in defence of the Christian religion. The battle was fought at Tynterne, where he obtained a great victory. He died here, being on his way homewards, three days after the battle; having taken order with Maurice his son, who succeeded him in the kingdom, that in the same place he should happen to decease, a church should be built and his body buried in the same, which was accordingly performed in the year 600.

Norfolk.

HOTHILL.

Miles Branthwaite.

If Death would take an answer, he was free
From all those seats of ills that he did see,
And gave no measure that he would not have
Given to him as hardly as he gave:
Then thou, Miles Branthwaite, might have answer’d Death,
And to be so moral might boyle breath,
Thou wast not yet to die. But be thou blest,
From weary life thou art gone quiet to rest,
Joy in the freedom from a prison, thou
Wast by God’s hands pluckt out but now,
Free from the dust and cobwebs of this vale;
And richer art thou by the heavenly bail
Than he that shut thee up. This heap of stones
To thy remembrance, and to chest thy bones,
Thy wife doth consecrate; so sleep till then,
When all graves must open, all yield up their men.

NORWICH.

Thomas Legge.

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,

John Powl.

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.

Henry Hall.

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,

Urith Leverington.

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.

SWANTON MORLEY.

Thos Heming—Attorney.

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.

COYSTWICK.

Mrs. Sarah Mills,
Mrs. Rebecca Ward.

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.

HENNINGHALL.

John Kett.

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.

HADDISCOE.

William Salter.

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.

HUNSTANTON.

I am not dead, but sleepeth here,
And when the trumpet sound I will appear.
Four balls through me pierced their way,
Hard it was, I had no time to pray.
The stone that here you do see
My comrades erected for the sake of me.

BURCH HEGGIN.

Acrostic Epitaph on Robert Porter, a noted miser.

R iches and wealth I now despise,
O nce the delight of heart and eyes;
B ut since I’ve known the vile deceit,
E nvy has met its own defeat.
R egardless of such empty toys,
T ell all to seek for heavenly joys.
P ull’d down by age and anxious cares,
O ppressed am I by dismal fears,
R elating to my future state,
T o know what then will be my fate.
E ternal God! to Thee I pray
R emove these fearful doubts away.

SWAFFHAM.

On a Lawyer.

Here lieth one, believe it if you can,
Who tho’ an attorney was an honest man,
The gates of heaven shall open wide,
But will be shut against all the tribe beside.

THETFORD.

My grandfather was buried here,
My cousin Jane, and two uncles dear;
My father perished with a mortification in his thighs,
My sister dropped down dead in the Minories.
But the reason why I am here, according to my thinking,
Is owing to my good living and hard drinking,
Therefore good Christians, if you’d wish to live long,
Beware of drinking brandy, gin, or anything strong.

LODDON.

When on this spot, affection’s down-cast eye
The lucid tribute shall no more bestow;
When Friendship’s breast no more shall heave a sigh,
In kind remembrance of the dust below;

Should the rude Sexton, digging near this tomb,
A place of rest for others to prepare,
The vault beneath, to violate, presume,
May some opposing Christian cry, “Forbear—

“Forbear, rash mortal, as thou hop’st to rest,
When death shall lodge thee in thy destin’d bed,
With ruthless spade, unkindly to molest
The peaceful slumbers of the kindred dead!”

GILLINGHAM.

On an Actor.

“Sacred to the memory of Thomas Jackson, Comedian, who was engaged December 21st, 1741, to play a comic cast of characters in this great theatre, the world, for many of which he was prompted by nature to excel—The season being ended—his benefit over—the charges all paid, and his account closed, he made his exit in the tragedy of Death, on the 17th of March, 1798, in full assurance of being called once more to rehearsal, and where he hopes to find his forfeits all cleared, his cast of parts bettered, and his situation made agreeable by Him who paid the great stock debt, for the love He bore to performers in general.”

LYNN.

William Scrivener,
Cook to the Corporation.

Alas! alas! Will Scriviner’s dead, who by his art
Could make death’s skeleton edible in each part;
Mourn, squeamish stomachs, and ye curious palates,
You’ve lost your dainty dishes and your salades;
Mourn for yourselves, but not for him i’ th’ least,
He’s gone to taste of a more Heav’nly feast.