Have you not yet enough of that soft skinne,
The touch of which, in times past, might have bin
Enough to ransome many a thousande soule
Captiv'd to love? then hence your bodies roule
A little higher; where I would you have
This epitaph upon her forehead grave;
Living, she was fayre, yong, and full of witt;
Dead, all her faults are in her forehead writt."
If I am wrong in supposing this never to have been printed, I shall feel much obliged by one of your correspondents informing me of the fact.
H. A. B.