nd heralds, by your leave, Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve: Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher.

The following epitaph on a miser contains a good caution and an agreeable railing.

Reader, beware immoderate love of self: Here lies the worst of thieves, who robbed himself.

But Dr Swift's epitaph on the same subject is a masterpiece of the kind.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demer, the wealthy and the wise. His heirs, that he might safely rest, Have put his carcass in a chest: The very chest, in which, they say, His other self, his money, lay. And if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe that four in five Will think his better half alive.

We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry epitaph on an old fiddler, who was remarkable (we may suppose) for beating time to his own music.

On Stephen the Fiddler.

Stephen and time are now both even; Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.

We are come now to that sort of epitaph which rejects rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be preserved in a clear and direct opposition. We cannot give a better example of this sort of epitaph than that on the tomb of Mr Pulteney in the cloisters of Westminster-abbey.

Reader,

hou art a Briton, Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret: Here lie the Remains of Daniel Pulteney, The kindest Relation, the truest Friend, The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man. He exercised Virtues in this Age, Sufficient to have distinguished him even in the best. Sagacious by Nature, Industrious by Habit, Inquisitive with Art; He gain'd a complete Knowledge of the State of Britain, Foreign and domestic;

In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience, In him the early acquisition of untutored Youth. He serv'd the Court several Years: Abroad, in the auspicious Reign of Queen Anne; At home, in the Reign of that excellent prince K. George I. He served his Country always, At Court independent, In the Senate unbias'd, At every Age, and in every Station: This was the bent of his generous Soul, This the business of his laborious Life. Public Men, and Public Things, He judged by one constant Standard. The True Interest of Britain: He made no other Distinction of Party, He abhorred all other. Gentle, humane, disinterested, beneficent, He created no Enemies on his own Account: Firm, determin'd, inflexible, He feared none he could create in the Cause of Britain. Reader, In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own: For know, The Loss of so much private Virtue Is a public calamity.

That poignant satire, as well as extravagant satire, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following epitaph written by Dr Arbuthnot on Francis Chartres; which is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation.

Here continueth to rot The Body of Francis Chartres, Who with an inflexible Constancy, And inimitable Uniformity of Life, Persisted, In spite of Age and Infirmities, In the Practice of every Human Vice, Excepting Prodigality and Hypocrisy: His insatiable Avarice exempted him from the first, His matchless Impudence from the second. Nor was he more singular In the undeviating Pravity of his Manners, Than successful In Accumulating Wealth: For, without Trade or Profession, Without Trust of Public Money, And without Bribe-worthy Service, He acquired, or more properly created, A Ministerial Estate. He was the only Person of his Time Who could cheat without the Mask of Honesty; Retain his Primæval Meanness When possessed of Ten Thousand a-year; And having daily deserved the Gibbet for what he did, Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not do. Oh indignant reader! Think not his Life useless to Mankind; Providence conniv'd at his execrable designs, To give to After-ages A conspicuous Proof and Example Of how small Estimation is Exorbitant Wealth In the Sight of GOD, By His bestowing it on the most Unworthy of all Mortals.

We Part II.