Poor Wade, my schoolfellow, lies low in the gravel,
One month ere fifteen put an end to his travel;
Harmless and mild, and remark'd for good nature;
The cause of his death was his overgrown stature:
His epitaph I wrote, as inserted below;
What tribute more friendly could I on him bestow?
The bard craves one shilling of his own dear mother,
And, if you think proper, add to it another.
That epitaph is better known, but deserves to be better still:
Here lies interred, in silent shade,