Gleanings in Graveyards Part 41

On a Wife (by her Husband).

Here lies my poor wife, much lamented, She's happy, and I'm contented.

One was our thought, One life we fought, One rest we both intended, Our bodies have to sleepe one grave, Our soules to G.o.d ascended.

Conjugal Epitaph.

Here rest my spouse, no pair through life, So equal liv'd as we did; Alike we shared perpetual strife, Nor knew I rest till she did.

An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman.

Another version.

(From an old Book of Job.)

We lived one and twenty yeare, Like man and wife together; I could no longer have her heere, She's gone, I know not whither.

If I could guesse, I doe professe, (I speak it not to flatter) Of all the women in the worlde, I never would come at her.

Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave doth hide her, And sure her soule is not in h.e.l.l, The fiend could ne'er abide her.

I think she mounted up on hie, For in the last great thunder, Mee thought I heard her voice on hie, Rending the clouds in sunder.

Within this place a vertvous virgin lies, Much like those virgins that were counted wise, Her lamp of life by Death being now pvt ovt, Her lamp of grace doth still s.h.i.+ne rovnd abovt, And thovgh her body here doth sleep in clay, Yet is her sovl still watchfvl for that day, When Christ the Bridegroom of her sovl shall come, To take her with him to the wedding roome.

Amy Mitch.e.l.l, 1724 aged 19.

Here lies a virgin cropt in youth, A Xtian both in name and truth, Forbear to mourn, she is not dead, But gone to marry Christ her head.

On a Woman who had three Husbands.

Here lies the body of Mary s.e.xtone, Who pleased three men, and never vexed one, That she can't say beneath the next stone.

Marianne S--.

Conjuge (i?) nunquam satis plorandae Inane hoc, tamen ultimum, Amoris consecrat testimonium, Maritus, heu! superstes.

The above Epitaph, inscribed on a plain marble tablet in a village church near Bath, is one of the few in which the Latin language has been employed with the brief and profound pathos of ancient sepulchral inscriptions.

Short was her life, Longer will be her rest; Christ call'd her home, Because he thought it best.

For she was born to die, To lay her body down, And young she did fly, Into the world unknown.

5 years & 9 months.

Here lies my wife in earthly mould, Who when she lived did naught but scold.

Peace! wake her not for now she's still, She _had_, but now _I_ have my will.

Epitaph written by Sarah Dobson, wife of John Dobson, to be put on her tombstone after her decease:-

I now have fallen asleep-my troubles gone, For while on earth, I had full many a one, When I get up again-as Parson says, I hope that I shall see some better days.

If Husband he should make a second suit His second wife will find that he's a _brute_.

He often made my poor sad heart to sigh, And often made me weep from _one poor eye_, The other he knocked out by a violent blow, As all my Kinsfolk and my Neighbours know.

I hope he will not serve his next rib so, But if he should, will put the two together, And through them stare while Satan tans his leather.

On Jemmy Jewell.

'Tis odd, quite odd, that I should laugh, When I'm to write an epitaph.

Here lies the bones of a rakish _Timmy_ Who was a _Jewell_ & a _Jemmy_.

He dealt in diamonds, garnets, rings, And twice ten thousand pretty things; Now he supplies Old _Nick_ with fuel, And there's an end of _Jemmy Jewell_.

On Thomas Knowles & his Wife.

Thomas Knolles lies under this stone, And his wife Isabell: flesh and bone They were together nineteen year, And ten children they had in fear.

His fader & he to this church Many good deed they did worch.

Example by him may ye see, That this world is but vanity; For whether he be small or great, All shall turn to worms' meat; This said Thomas was lay'd on beere, The eighth day the month Fevree, The date of Jesu Christ truly, Anno M.C.C.C. five & forty.

We may not pray; heartily pray he, For our souls, Pater Noster and Ave.

The swarer of our pains lissed to be, Grant us thy holy trinity. Amen.

On one stone, exhibiting a copy of that VERY RARE inscription beginning with "Afflictions sore," the second line affords the following choice specimen of orthography:-"Physicians are in vain."

Think nothing strange, Chance happens unto all; My lot's to-day, To-morrow yours may fall.

Great afflictions I have had, Which wore my strength away; Then I was willing to submit Unto this bed of clay.