“Crow—crow—perhaps I might, now I recall
The matter over.” “And pray, sir, what was’t?”
“Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,
Something that was—as black, sir, as a crow.”
John Byrom.
AN EPITAPH
A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes;
She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil (sometimes);
Her figure was good; she had very fine eyes,