English

Here lies Mistress Keene the Bishop of Chester,
She had a bad face, which did always molest her.

Here lies John Knott:
His father was Knott before him,
He lived Knott, died Knott,
Yet underneath this stone doth lie
Knott christened, Knott begot,
And here he lies and still is Knott.

Here lyes John Hughs and Sarah Drew
Perhaps you'l say, what's that to you?
Believe me Freind much may be said
On this poor Couple that are dead.
On Sunday next they should have marry'd;
But see how oddly things are carry'd.
On Thursday last it rain'd and Lighten'd,
These tender Lovers sadly frighten'd
Shelter'd beneath the cocking Hay
In Hopes to pass the Storm away.
But the bold Thunder found them out
(Commission'd for that end no Doubt)
And seizing on their trembling Breath
Consign'd them to the Shades of Death.

On Mr. Robert Port

Here lies hee, whom the Tyrants rage
Snatcht in a venerable age;
And here with him entomb'd do lye
Honour, and Hospitalitie.

Here lies Dr Keene, the good Bishop of Chester,
Who eat up a fat goose, but could not digest her.

1.

Here lie the relics of a martyred knight,
Whose loyalty, unspotted as the light,
Sealed with his blood his injured sovereign's right.

2.

The state his head did from his body sever
Because, when living, 'twas his chief endeavor
To set the nation and its head together.

3.

He boldly fell, girt round with weeping soldiers,
Imploring Heaven (for the good of the beholders)

Here lie I, once a witty fair,
Ill-loving and ill-loved;
Whose heedless beauty was my snare,
Whose wit my folly proved.

Reader, should any curious stay
To ask my luckless name,
Tell them the grave that hides my clay
Conceals me from my shame.

Tell them I mourned for guilt of sin
More than for pleasure spent:
Tell them, whate'er my morn had been,
My noon was penitent.

Here lapped in hallowed slumber Saon lies,
Asleep, not dead; a good man never dies.

Here is the tale of Carrousel,
The barber of Meridian Street,
He cut, and coiffed, and shaved so well,
That all the world was at his feet.

The King, the Queen, and all the Court,
To no one else would trust their hair,
And reigning belles of every sort
Owed their successes to his care.

With carriage and with cabriolet
Daily Meridian Street was blocked,
Like bees about a bright bouquet
The beaux about his doorway flocked.

Such was his art he could with ease
Curl wit into the dullest face;

Here is the same familiar land
My mother knew when she was young.
This warm earth crumbled to her hand,
She heard these very bird notes sung.

In that green meadow down the lane,
Knee-deep her pony cropped the grass,
The beaten pathways still remain
That felt her flying footsteps pass.

Beyond that willow tree the stream
Plunges forever into foam, —
Let us go there a while and dream
Of this dear place that was her home.
...

She must have stood here long ago
Upon this lichen-covered stone