Very nicely thou lay’st on thy colours, dear Nan,
And no painter in skill can o’ertop ye;
When to Ellys you sat, he dully brushed on,
Till he thought he had an original drawn,
Which you proved to be only a copy.
Epitaph on a talkative old Maid.
Beneath this silent stone is laid
A noisy antiquated maid,
Who, from her cradle, talked till death,
And ne’er before was out of breath.