Works

Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye can
Upon the grave of this old man.
Twice forty, bating but one year
And thrice three weeks, he lived here.
Whom gentle fate translated hence
To a more happy residence....

Old Widow Prouse, to do her neighbours evil,
Would give, some say, her soul unto the devil.
Well, when she's kill'd that pig, goose, cock, or hen,
What would she give to get that soul again?

Men say you're fair; and fair ye are, 'tis true;
But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

Thou cam'st to cure me, doctor, of my cold,
And caught'st thyself the more by twenty fold:
Prithee go home; and for thy credit be
First cured thyself, then come and cure me.

'Tis heresy in others: in your face
That scar's no schism, but the sign of grace.

Fie, quoth my lady, what a stink is here?
When 'twas her breath that was the carrionere.

Spend, harmless shade, thy nightly hours
Selecting here both herbs and flowers;
Of which make garlands here and there
To dress thy silent sepulchre.
Nor do thou fear the want of these...

'Twas but a single rose,
Till you on it did breathe;
But since, methinks, it shows
Not so much rose as wreath.

In this little vault she lies,
Here, with all her jealousies:
Quiet yet; but if ye make
Any noise they both will wake,
And such spirits raise 'twill then
Trouble death to lay again.

Let all chaste matrons, when they chance to see
My num'rous issue, praise and pity me:
Praise me for having such a fruitful womb,
Pity me, too, who found so soon a tomb.

Batt he gets children, not for love to rear 'em;
But out of hope his wife might die to bear 'em.

Here lies Jonson with the rest
Of the poets: but the best.
Reader, would'st thou more have known?
Ask his story, not this stone.
That will speak what this can't tell
Of his glory. So farewell.

Bice laughs, when no man speaks; and doth protest.
It is his own breech there that breaks the jest.

Blanch swears her husband's lovely; when a scald
Has blear'd his eyes: besides, his head is bald
Next, his wild ears, like leathern wings full spread,
Flutter to fly, and bear away his head.

I have seen many maidens to have hair,
Both for their comely need and some to spare;
But Blanch has not so much upon her head
As to bind up her chaps when she is dead.

Tom Blinks his nose is full of weals, and these
Tom calls not pimples, but pimpleides;
Sometimes, in mirth, he says each whelk's a spark,
When drunk with beer, to light him home i' th' dark.

Blisse, last night drunk, did kiss his mother's knee;
Where will he kiss, next drunk, conjecture ye.

Boreman takes toll, cheats, natters, lies; yet Boreman,
For all the devil helps, will be a poor man.

What made that mirth last night? the neighbours say,
That Bran the baker did his breech beray:
I rather think, though they may speak the worst,
'Twas to his batch, but leaven laid there first.

Of four teeth only Bridget was possest;
Two she spat out, a cough forced out the rest.