Our bodies are like shoes, which off we cast,—
Physic their coblers, and Death their last.
Mercye, God of my misdede;
Ladye, help at my most neede;
On a brass plate under theyre feete,
Reye gracious I ha to Endles lyfe at thy grete
dome, where alle Schalle apere, Hughe Norys Groe, and
Johan, hys wyf, now dede in Grave and Buryed here;
Yo P’yers desyringe therre soules for chere, the x
day of July, the yere of oure Lorde God, mdcccccxxix.
This epitaph appears on a flat stone, with the effigies of a man and woman.
On Two Infants.
Two lovelier babes ye nare did se
Than God A’mighty gaed to we,
Bus the was o’ertaken we agur (ague) fits,
And hare tha lies as dead as nits!
NORTH CERNEY.
Here lieth, ready to start, in full hopes to save his distance,
Timothy Turf, formerly Stud Groom to Sir Mamaduke Match’em, and
Late Keeper of the Racing Stables on Cerney Downs:—
But
Was beat out of the world on the 1st of April last, by
that inivincible
Rockingham Death.
N.B.—He lived and died an honest man.
CHELTENHAM.
“Here lies I and my three daughters,
Killed by a drinking the Cheltenham waters;
If we had stuck to Epsom salts,
We’d not been a lying in these here vaults.”