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Being at length condemned to die,
By the most profligate of mankind;
In the hour of death, she left here a monument
Of piety, of fortitude, and of every virtue,
October 16, 1793.

The monarchy being at length restored,
Her prison was converted into a sanctuary,
In the year of our Lord, 1816,

And the 22d of the reign of Louis XVIII. Under the inspection of the Prefect and Municipal Authorities,

The Count De Cazes, being Minister of Police.

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It was his custom in conversation to say,

" D'ye

hear?" And if any said he did not, John would reply, "'Tis no matter, I've said."

The REV. WILLIAM HUNTINGDON was minister for many years of Providence Chapel, Titchfield-street, and latterly of Providence Chapel, Gray's Inn-Lane. Mr. HUNTINGDON was well known as a Preacher, and by his eccentric writings, in most parts of England, few men have attracted more notice. Since the destruction of the old Chapel in Titchfield-street, by fire, and the erection of the new one in Gray's Inn-Lane, he had resided at Pentonville: his last sermon was on the 16th of June, when he appeared in his usual health, after which being indisposed, he went for recovery to Tunbridge-wells, and died on the first of July. His remains were taken from Tunbridge-wells to Lewes, and interred in a vault at the west end of Tirch Chapel, in the presence of some hundreds of spectators of all denominations. The hearse was followed by eight mourning coaches and a considerable number of other carriages. His wife, Lady Sanderson, and her two daughters, with the children of the deceased by a former wife, were the chief mourners. A stone at the head of the grave exhibits the following epitaph, dictated by himself a few days prior to his death.

HERE LIES

THE COAL HEAVER:

Who departed this life, July 1, 1813;
In the 69th year of his age.

Beloved of his God, but abhorred of Men,
The Omniscient Judge at the Grand Assize,
Shall ratify and confirm this,

To the confusion of many thousands :
For England and its Metropolis shall know,
That there has been a Prophet among them.

IMMORTAL SHAKSPEARE, born in 1564, and died on his birth day, April 23, 1616, having completed his 52d year, and lies buried in the north aisle of the chancel in the great Church at Stratford-onAvon, with the following inscription, on a stone, supposed to be written by himself:

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Stay, passenger, why dost thou go so fast?

Read, if thou canst, whom envious death hath plac'd Within this monument; Shakspeare, with whom Quick nature dy'd; whose name doth deck the tomb Far more than cost; since all that he hath writ Leaves living art but page to serve his wit.

And on his grave-stone underneath are these lines in an uncouth mixture of small and capital letters.

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here.

Blest be the man that spares these stones;
And curst be he that moves my bones.

On MR. COOMBE, a gentleman in Warwickshire, and noted for practising usury.

Ten in the hundred lies here engrav'd,

'Tis an hundred to ten his soul is not sav'd: If any man ask who lies in this tomb,

Oh! oh! quoth the devil, 'tis my John o' Coombe.

SHAKSPEARE.

On Toм a COOMBE, alias THIN BEARD; brother to the last mentioned, supposed also to be written by Shakspeare.

Thin in beard, and thick in purse,

Never man beloved worse;

He went to the grave with many a curse,

The devil and he had both one nurse.

On RICHARD SMITH, an idiot, at Colne, in Lancashire.

If innocence may claim a place in Heav'n,
And little be requir'd from little given ;

My great Creator has for me in store,

A world of bliss,-What can the wise have more?

of

On QUEEN ELIZABETH, who died at Richmond, on the 24th day of March, 1602, in the 70th year her age, and 45th of her reign.

Kings, queens, men's judgments, eyes,
See where your mirrour lyes:
In whom her friends hath seen

A King's state in a queen:
In whom her foes survey'd
A man's heart in a maid;
Whom least men for her piety
Should judge to have been a deity.
Heav'n since, by death, did summon,
To shew she was a woman.

In St. Martin's Orgar's, London; on M. S. SIR ALLEN COTTON, Knight and Alderman of London, sometime Lord Mayor of this honourable city, who died 24th of September, 1628.

When he left earth, rich bounty dy'd,
Mild courtesie gave place to pride;
Soft mercie to bright justice sayde,
O sister! we are both betray'd:
White innocence lay on the ground
By truth, and wept at either's wound;
The sons of Levi did lament,

Their lamps went out, their oil was spent ;
Heav'n hath his soul, and only we

Spin out our lives in misery;

So death, thou missest of thy ends,

And kill'st not him, but kill'st his friends.

ON SIR EDWARD LYTTLETONS.

Here lie three knights, grandfather, father, and son; Sir Edward, Sir Edward, and Sir Edward Lyttleton.

On THOMAS KEMP, who was hanged for sheepstealing.

Here lies the body of Thomas Kemp,
Who liv'd by wool, but dy'd by hemp;
There's nothing would suffice this glutton,
But, with the fleece, to steal the mutton!
Had he but work'd, and liv'd uprighter,
He'd ne'er been hang'd for sheep-biter.

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