“Graceless gallant, in all thy lust and pride,
Remember that thou shalt give due.
Death shall from thy body thy soul divide.
Thou must not him escape certainly.
To the dead bodies cast down thine eye,
Behold them well, consider and see,
For such as they are such shalt thou be.”
There is little more to be said about death than is said here. But I could not find the words, though I went up and down those streets of knights’, ladies’, and doctors’ tombs, and saw again old Eleonor Sadler, grim, black, and religious, kneeling at her book in a niche since 1622, and looking as if she could have been the devil to those who did not do likewise. I saw, too, the tablet of Henry Hele, who practised medicine felicitously and honourably, for fifty years, in the close and in the city; and the green lady with the draped harp mourning over Thomas, Baron Wyndham, Lord High Steward of Ireland (1681–1745), and the bust of Richard Jefferies,—
“Who, observing the works of Almighty God
With a poet’s eye, | Has |