nd pride were to her soul unknown, Convinc'd that virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so compos'd a mind, So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin'd, Heavy, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd; The saint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.
This epitaph, as well as the second quoted from Ben Johnson, has indeed one fault; the name is omitted. The end of an epitaph is to convey some account of the dead; and to what purpose is any thing told of him
hose name is concealed? The name, it is true, may be inscribed by itself upon the stone; but such a shift of the poet is like that of an unskilful painter, who is obliged to make his purpose known by adventitious help.
Amongst the epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous cast, we know of none prettier than that which is said to have been written by Mr Prior on himself, wherein he is pleasantly satirical upon the folly of those who value themselves upon account of the long series of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree.
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 raillery.
Reader, beware immoderate love of self: Here lies the worst of thieves, who robb'd 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,
If thou 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,
nd Domestic;
In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience, In him the early acquisition of undissipated Youth. He serv'd the Court several Years: Abroad, in the auspicious reign of Queen Anne; At home, in the reignol that excellent prince K. George I. He serv'd his Country always, At Court independent, In the Senate unbiased, 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, determined, 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 praise, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following epitaph written by Dr Arbuthnot on Francis Charteris; which is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation.
Here continueth to rot The body of FRANCIS CHARTERIS, Who with an INFLEXIBLE CONSTANCY, And IMMUTABLE UNIFORMITY OF LIFE,