EPITAPH.
Entomb’d beneath this lofty tree
A mortal lies of low degree.
A strict observer from his youth
Of that important virtue, truth.
He never with a selfish view
Was known to speak a word untrue.
His temper lively, yet as mild
And harmless as a new-born child.
He never slandered friend or foe,
Nor triumph’d in another’s woe;
And tho’, when young, he us’d to roam,
For years he lov’d his little home:
Securely there he laid him down,
Nor fear’d the world’s ill-natur’d frown;
No wild ambitious thoughts possest
His quiet, unaspiring breast.
He envied neither wealth nor power,
Enjoying still the present hour;
Contented with his daily bread,
Each night he sought his peaceful bed:
Stranger to vice he knew no fear,
As life’s important end drew near;
He breath’d his last without a sigh,
And shew’d how Innocence shou’d die
Blush, reader, while these lines you scan
Here lies a Monkey, not a man.
NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.