The Epitaph.
Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth,
A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known;
Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth,
God Mammon early marked him for his own.
Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear;
What he won foully he did freely spend.
He plundered no one knows how much a year,
But Chancery o’ertook him in the end.
No further seek his frailties to disclose: