On an Usurer.
Here lies ten in the hundred
In the ground fast ram’d,
’Tis an hundred to ten,
But his soul is damned.
Epitaph on the grave of a Smuggler killed in a fight with Revenue Officers.
Here I lies
Killed by the XII.
Here lies one who lived unloved, and died unlamented; who denied plenty to himself, and assistance to his friends, and relief to the poor; who starved his family, oppressed his neighbours, and plagued himself to gain what he could not enjoy; at last Death, more merciful to him than he was to himself, released him from care, and his family from want; and here he lies with the grovelling worm, and with the dirt he loved, in fear of a resurrection, lest his heirs should have spent the money he left behind, having laid up no treasure where moth and rust do not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.
On John D’Amory, the Usurer.
Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demar the wealthy and wise.
His Heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his carcase in a Chest.
The very Chest, in which, they say
His other Self, his Money, lay.
And if his Heirs continue kind
To that dear Self he left behind,
I dare believe that Four in Five
Will think his better self alive.
On William Clay.
A long affliction did my life attend,
But time with patience brought it to an end,
And now my body rests with Mother clay,
Until the joyful resurrection day.