The following, on Margaret Humble, is from St. Saviour's, Southwark:—
"Like to the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flow'r of May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even so is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done:
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow dies,
The gourd consumes, and man he dies."
The Epitaph on "Elizabeth," by Ben Jonson, is already well known:—
"Wouldst thou hear what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die,
Which when alive did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
Th' other, let it sleep with death;
Fitter, where it dyed to tell,
Than that it lived at all.—Farewell!"
In the cemeteries at Florence are many sentences
