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On MaR Y Countess Dowager of Pembroke.
Underneath this marble hearse,
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney % sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast kill'd another
Fair, and searn'd, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Take another Epitaph of Ben Johnson's, on a beautisul and virtuous lady, which has been deservedly admired by very good judges.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much virtue as could die;
Which when alive did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.

Mr. Pope has drawn the character of Mr. Gay, in an Epitaph now to be seen on his monument in WeftminsterAbbey, which he has closed with such a beautisul turn, that I cannot help looking upon it as a master-piece in its kind, as indeed are most of the productions of that surprising genius.

On Mr. Gay.

Of manners gentle, of assections mild;
In wit, a man; simplicity, a child:
With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once, and lash the age:
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted, ev'n among the Great:
A fase companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd thro' lise, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall fay,
Striking their pensive bosums—Here lies Gay.

There is something fo tender and moving, and such a strain of paternal and silial assection in Mr. Pope's Epitaph on Dr. Atterbury, that we shall give it a place among these examples, tho' the Critics, perhaps, will object to its being a true Epitaph.

On Dr. Francis Atterbury, Bisbop of Rochester, ixho died in exile at Paris, 1732.

[His only Daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.]


She. Yes, we have liv'd—one pang, and then we part!
May heav'n, dear father! now have all thy heart.
Yet ah! how once we lov'd, remember still,
Till you are dust like me.

He. Dear shade! I will:

Then mix this dust with thine—O spotless ghost!
O more than fortune, friends, or country loft!
Is there on earth one care, one wifh beside?
Yes—Save my country,-heav'n,.

He faid, and dy'd.

Tshall conclude^ these examples of the serious kind with an Epitaph written by Mr. Smart, to the memory of Master * • *, who died of a lingering illness, aged eleven.

Henceforth be every tender tear suppress,

Or let us weep for joy that he is blest;

From grief to bKss, from earth to heav'n remov'd,

His mem'ry honour'd, as his lise belav'd.

That heart o'er which no evil e'er had pow'r!

That.disposition, sickness cou'd not four!

That sense, fo oft to riper years deny'd!

That patience, heroes might have own'd with pride!

His painsul race undauntedly he ran,

And in th' eleventh winter died a Man.

Amongst the Epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous cast, I know of none prettier than that which is faid to have been written by Mr. Prior on himself, wherein he is pleafantly fatirical upon the folly of those who value themselves on account of the long series of ancestors through which. they can trace their pedigree.

Nobles and Heralds, by your leave,
Here lie the bones of Mattheiu Prior,

The fon of Adam and of Eve:
Let Bourbon or Najsau go higher.

Of the fame cast is that written by Mr. Pope on one who would not be buried in Westminster-abbey.

Heroes, and kings! your distance keep,
In peace let one poor poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like you:
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

The following Epitaph on a Mifer containr a good caution and an agreeable raillery.

Reader, beware immod'rate love of pels:

Here lies the worst of thieves, who robb'd himself.

But Dr. Swift's Epitaph on the fame subject is, I think, a master-piece of the kind.

Epitaph on a Miser.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demer, the wealthy and the wise.
His Heirs, that he might fasely rest,
Have put his Carcass in a Chest:
The very Chest, in which, they fay,
His other Self, his Money, lay.
And if his heirs continue kind
To that dear Self he left behind,
I dare believe that four in sive
Will think his better Half alive.

We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry Epitaph on an old Fiddler, who was remarkable (we may suppose) for beating time to his own rausick.

On Stephen the Eiddler.

Stephen and Time are now both even;
Stephen beat Time, now Time's beat Stephen.

We are now come to that fort of Epitaph which rejects Rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be preserved in a clear and direct opposition. We cannot give a better example of this fort of Epitaph, than that on the tomb of Mr. Pulteney, in thecloysters of Westminster-Abbes.


If than art a Briton,

Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret:

Here lie the Remains of

Daniel Pultbney,

The kindest Relation, the truest Friend,

The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man;

He exercifed Virtues in this Age,

Susficient to have distinguished him even in the best.

Sagacious by Nature,

Industrious by Habit,

Inquifitive with Art;

He gain'd a complete Knowledge of the State of Britain,

Foreign and domestic.

In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience,

In him the early Acquifition of undiffipated Youth:

He ferv'd the Court several Years:

rK Abroad, in the auspicious Reign ef Queen Ame,

At home, in the Reign of that excellent Prince K. George the sirst.

He served his Country always,

At Court independent,

In the Senate unbiass'd,

At every Age, and in every Station:

This was the bent of his generous Sool,

This the Business of his laborious Lise.

Public Men, and Public Things,

He judged by one constant Standard,

The true lulere/l of Britain:

He made no other Distinction of Party,

He abhorred all other:

Gentle, humane, disinterested, benesicent,

He created no Enemies on his own Account".

Firm, determin'd, inflexible,

He seared none he could create in the Cause of Britain.


In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own:

For know,

The Loss of su much private Virtue

Is a public Calamity.

That poignant fatire, as well as extravagant praife, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following Epitaph written by Tir. Arbuthnot on Francis Cbartres; which is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation.

Here eontinueth to rot


Who with an Inflexible Constancy,

And Inimitable Uniformity of Life,


In spite of Age and Infirmities,

In the Practice of Etery Human Vice,

Excepting Prodigality and Hypocrisy:

His infatiable Avarice exempted him from the sirst,

His matchless Impudence from the second.

Nor was he more singular

In the undeviating Pravity of his Matmtri,

Than successsul

In Accumulating Wealth:

For, without Trade or Profession,

Without Trust of Public Money,

And without Bribe-worthy Service,

He acquired, or more properly created,

A Ministerial Estate.

He was the only Perfon of his Time

Who could Cheat without the Mask of Honesty,

Retain his Primæval Meanness

When possess'd of Ten Thousand a year;

And having daily deserved the Gibbet for what he did,

Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not do.

Oh Indignant Reader!

Think not his Lise useless to Mankind;

Providence conniv'd at his execrable Designs,

To give to After-ages

A conspicuous Proof and Example,

Of how small Estimation is Exorbitant Wealth

in the Sight of GOD,

By his bestowing it on the most Unworthy of All


This fort of Epitaph may alfo admit of humour and ridicule, as will appear by the following on a boon companion who is supposed to have lost his lise to obtain his friend a borough.

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