After the rare arch-poet, Jonson, died, The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride, Together with the stage's glory, stood Each like a poor and pitied widowhood....
What wisdom, learning, wit or worth Youth or sweet nature could bring forth Rests here with him who was the fame, The volume of himself and name. If, reader, then, thou wilt draw near...
Have ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam...
Thrice happy roses, so much grac'd to have Within the bosom of my love your grave. Die when ye will, your sepulchre is known, Your grave her bosom is, the lawn the stone.