Samuel Wesley (poet, died 1739)

"Here lie I, once a witty fair, Ill-loving and ill-loved; Whose heedless beauty was my snare, Whose wit my folly proved. Reader, should any curious stay To ask my luckless name, Tell them the grave that hides my clay Conceals me from my shame. Tell them I mourned for guilt of sin More than for pleasure spent: Tell them, whate’er my morn had been, My noon was penitent."

"From sunset to daybreak, when folks are asleep, New watchmen are 'pointed the 'chequer to keep; New locks and new bolts fasten every door, And the chests are made three times as strong as before. Yet the thieves, when 'tis open, the treasure may seize, For the same are still trusted with care of the keys. From the night to the morning, 'tis true, all is right; But who shall secure it from morning to night?"

"Whilst Butler, needy wretch! was yet alive, No gen'rous patron would a dinner give: See him, when starved to death, and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental bust! The poet's fate is here in emblem shown,— He ask'd for bread, and he receiv'd a stone."