The Epitaph.
Here festering rots a quondam pest of earth,
To virtue and to honest shame unknown;
Low-cunning on a dung-hill gave him birth;
Vice clapp’d her hands, and mark’d him for her own.
Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark;
In lucky knavery lay all his hope;
No pains he spar’d, and seldom miss’d his mark,
So gain’d (’twas what he merited) a rope.