“Here lies not Rose the chaste, but Rose the Fair,
Her scents no more perfume, but taint the air.”
Another translation.
“The Rose of the World, a sad minx,
Lies here;—let’s hope she repented:
She doesn’t smell well now, but stinks,—
She always used to be scented.”
Another.
Here doth Fayre Rosamund like any peasant lie:
She once was fragrant, but now smells unpleasantly.
Here lies one blown out of breath,
Who lived a merry life, and died a Merideth.
On a Letter Founder.
Under this stone lies honest Syl,
Who dy’d—though sore against his will;
Yet in his fame, he shall survive,—
Learning shall keep his name alive;
For he the parent was of letters,
And founded, to confound his betters;
Though what those letters should contain,
Did never once concern his brain,
Since, therefore, Reader, he is gone,
Pray let him not be trod upon.
Old Vicar Sutor lieth here,
Who had a Mouth from ear to ear,
Reader tread lightly on the sod,
For if he gapes, your’ gone by G--.