On John Sullen.
Here lies John Sullen, and it is God's will,
He that was Sullen should be Sullen still;
He still is Sullen, if the truth ye seek,
Knock until doomsday, Sullen will not speak.
In Ripon Churchyard, Yorkshire.
Reader, who gazing on this lettered stone,
My fate displaying, thoughtless of thine own,
On this important truth thou mayst rely,
To thee both death and judgment may be nigh.
Oh! let this solemn thought, whoe'er thou art,
Find place within, and regulate thy heart.
In the Churchyard of Hatfield, Herts.
The world's a city full of crooked streets;
And death the market-place where all men meet.
If death were merchandise, that men could buy,
The rich would always live, the poor must die.
In the Churchyard of Langtown, Cumberland.
Life's like an inn where travellers stay:
Some only breakfast and away,
Others to dinner stay, and are full fed—
The oldest only sup and go to bed:
Long is his bill who lingers out the day,
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay
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