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

Here lies Jonson with the rest
Of the poets; but the best.
Reader, would'st thou more have known?
Ask his story, not this stone.
That will speak what this can't tell
Of his glory. So farewell.

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.

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.

Here lies a most beautiful lady,
Light of step and heart was she;
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
However rare—rare it be;
And when I crumble, who will remember
This lady of the West Country?

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

Here is the long-bided hour: the labor of years is accomplished.
Why should this sadness unplumbed secretly weigh on my heart?
Is it, my work being done, I stand like a laborer, useless,
One who has taken his pay, a stranger to tasks that are new?
Is it the work I regret, the silent companion of midnight,
Friend of the golden-haired Dawn, friend of the gods of the hearth?

Here I my selfe might likewise die,
And utterly forgotten lye,
But that eternall Poetrie
Repullulation gives me here
Unto the thirtieth thousand yeere,
When all now dead shall re-appeare.

Here costive many minutes did I strain,
Still squeezing, sweating, swearing, all in vain;
When lo! who should pop by but mother Masters,
At whose bewitching look soon stubborn arse stirs.
No more my wanton wit shall whip thy wife,
Dear, doting Dick, for O! she saved my life.