ST. MARGARET'S, LONDON.

BODY. I, Mary Pawson, ly below slepying.
SOULE. I, Mary Pawson, sit above waking.

We hope to meete again with glory cloath'd, BOTI. Then Mary Pawson be for ever blessed.

IN THE DIOCESE OF

ROCHESTER.

On **** Palmer, of Orford, Esquire, ****

Palmers all our faders were,

I, a Palmer, lived here,

And trauyl'd still, 'till worn wyth age,
I ended this world's pylgramage,
On the blyst assention day

In the cherful month of May;

A thousand wyth fowr hundryd seuen,
And took my jorney hense to Heuen.

ON A GRAVESTONE,

In the Ruins of an old Church, near Broughton-Green,

NORTHAMPTON.

TIME was, I-stood where thou dost now,
And view'd the dead as thou dost me;

Ere long thou'lt lie as low as I,

And others stand and look on thee.

*s. P.

ON A YOUNG ROSCIUS,

IN THE REIGN OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

By Ben Jonson.

A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL:

WEEP with me all you that read

This little story;

And know for whom a tear you shed,—

Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child that did so thrive

In age and feature,

As Heav'n and Nature seem'd to strive,
Which own'd the creature.
Yeeres he number'd scarce thirteen,
When Fates turn'd cruel,

Yet three full zodiacks had he been
The stage's jewel.

And did act, what now we moane,

Old men so duely,

As sooth the Parcæ thought him one,

He plaid so truely.

So by error, to his fate,

They all consented;

But viewing him since, alas, too late,

They have repented..

And have sought, to give new birth.

In bathes to steep him;

But being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

Most likely SAL PAVY, who had a part-in Cynthia's Revels, and the Poetaster.

ON LADY VENUSIA DIGBY.

By Randolph.

BEAUTY itself lies here, in whom alone
Each part enjoy'd the same perfection.
In some the eyes we praise, in some the hair;
In her the lips, in her the cheeks are fair;
That nymph's fine feet, her hands we beauteous call;
But in this form we praise no part, but all.
The ages past have many beauties shown,
And I more plenty in our time have known:
But in the age to come I look for none;
Nature despairs, because the pattern's gone.

A TRUE REPORT OF

MRS. ISABELLA HARINGTON,

Mother of the Translator of Orlando
Furioso, &c.

A BODY chast, a virtuous mind,
A temperat toung, an humble hart,
Secret and wise, faithful and kind,
Plaine without guile, milde without art,
A friend to peace, a foe to strife,
A spotlesse maid, a matchlesse wife.

ON JOHN MILLS..

HERE lies John Mills, who over hills
Pursu'd the hounds with hollow;
The leap tho' high, from earth to skie,
The huntsman we must follow.

BENEATH these horrors of a tomb
Greatness in humble ruin lies;
(How earth confines in narrow room
What heroes leave beneath the skies!) ·

Preserve, O venerable pile!

Inviolate thy sacred trust;
To thy cold arms the British isle,
Weeping, commits her richest duşť.

Ye gentlest ministers of fate!

Attend the monarch as he lies, And bid the softest slumbers wait,

With silken cords to bind his eyes.

Rest his dear sword beneath his head; Round him his faithful arms shall stand ;

Fix his bright ensigns on his bed,

The guards and honours of our land.

Ye sister arts of paint. and verse,
Place Albion fainting by his side!
Her groans arising o'er the hearse,
And Belgia sinking when he died.

High o'er the grave Religion set,

In solemn gold; pronounce the ground Sacred, to bar unhallow'd feet,

And plant her guardian virtues round.

Fair Liberty, in sables drest,

Write his lov'd name upon his urn; William the scourge of tyrants past, "And awe of Princes yet unborn."

Sweet Peace his sacred reliques keep, With olives blooming round her head; And stretch her wings across the deep, To bless the nations with the shade.

Stand on the pile, immortal Fame!
Broad stars adorn thy brightest robe!
Thy thousand voices sound his name,
In silver accents, round the globe.

Flatt'ry shall faint beneath the sound,
While hoary Truth inspires the song;
Envy grow pale and bite the ground,

And Slander gnaw her forky tongue.

Night and the Grave remove your gloom, Darkness becomes the vulgar dead; But Glory bids the royal tomb

Disdain the horrors of a shade.

Glory, with all her lamps, shall burn!
And watch the Warrior's sleeping clay,
Till the last Trumpet rouse his urn,
To aid the triumphs of the day.