Eight Epitaphs

Here lyeth our infant, Alice Rodd;
She was so small
Scarce aught at all,
But a mere breath of Sweetness sent from God.

Sore we did weepe; our heartes on sorrow set.
Till on our knees
God sent us ease:
And now we weepe no more than we forget.

Here sleep I,
Susannah Fry,
No one near me,
No one nigh:
Alone, alone
Under my stone,
Dreaming on,
Still dreaming on:
Grass for my valance
And coverlid,
Dreaming on
As I always did.
"Weak in the head"
Maybe. Who knows?
Susannah Fry
Under the rose.

Three sisters rest beneath
This cypress shade,
Sprightly Rebecca, Anne,
And Adelaide.
Gentle their hearts to all
On earth, save Man;
In Him, they said, all Grief,
All Wo began.
Spinsters they lived, and spinsters
Here are laid;
Sprightly Rebecca, Anne,
And Adelaide.

Here lies Thomas Logge -- a Rascally Dogge;
A poor useless creature -- by choice as by nature;
Who never served God -- for kindness or Rod;
Who, for pleasure or penny, -- never did any
Work in his life -- but to marry a Wife,
And live aye in strife:
And all this he says -- at the end of his days
Lest some fine canting pen
Should be at him again.

Just a span and half a span
From head to heel was this little man.
Scarcely a capful of small bones
Raised up erect this Midget once.
Yet not a knuckle was askew;
Inches for feet God made him true;
And something handsome put between
His coal-black hair and beardless chin.
But now, forsooth, with mole and mouse,
He keeps his own small darkened house.

No Voice to scold;
No face to frown;
No hand to smite
The helpless down:
Ay, Stranger, here
An Infant lies,
With worms for
Welcome Paradise.

Stranger, here lies
Ann Poverty;
Such was her name
And such was she.
May Jesu pity
Poverty

Be very quiet now:
A child's asleep
In this small cradle,
In this shadow deep!