To the memory of Thomas Hause:
"Lord, thy grace is free,—why not for me?"
This man dying greatly in debt, one of his creditors wrote underneath:
And the Lord answered and said,—
"Because thy debts aint paid!"
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Our bodies are like shoes, which off we cast,
Physic their cobblers, and Death their last.
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Who lies here?—Who do you think?
'Tis poor Will Gibson—give him a drink.
Give him a drink, I'll tell you for why,
When he was living, he always was dry.
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Old Vicar Sutor lieth here
Who had a Mouth from ear to ear,
Reader tread lightly on the sod,
For if he gapes, you're gone by G—.