Epitaph

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.
Who knows if 'twas not kindly done?
For had they seen the next Year's Sun
A Beaten Wife and Cuckold Swain
Had jointly curs'd the marriage chain.
Now they are happy in their Doom
For P. has wrote upon their Tomb.
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