Epitaphs

"Ecce quod expendi habui, quod donavi habeo, quod negavi punior, quod servavi perdidi."

"Ne'er to these chambers where the mighty rest, Since their foundation came a nobler guest; Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit or more welcome shade."

"Nihil unquam peccavit, nisi quod mortua est."

"Quod expendi habui Quod donavi habeo Quod servavi perdidi."

"He will be weighed again At the Great Day, His rigging refitted, And his timbers repaired, And with one broadside Make his adversary Strike in his turn."

"Thou third great Canning, stand among our best And noblest, now thy long day's work hath ceased, Here silent in our minster of the West Who wert the voice of England in the East."

"Beneath this stone old Abraham lies; Nobody laughs and nobody cries. Where he is gone, and how he fares, Nobody knows and nobody cares."

"To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art! draw near! Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most dear; Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died."

"Avete multum, Spesque, Forsque; sum in vado. Qui pone sint illudite; haud mea interest."

"Warm summer sun shine kindly here; Warm southern wind blow softly here; Green sod above lie light, lie light— Good night, dear heart, good night, good night."

"Traveller, let your step be light, So that sleep these eyes may close, For poor Scarron, till to-night, Ne'er was able e'en to doze."

"These are two friends whose lives were undivided: So let their memory be, now they have glided Under the grave; let not their bones be parted, For their two hearts in life were single-hearted."

"Here lies one who meant well, tried a little, failed much."

"To the down Bow of Death His Forte gave way, All the Graces in sorrow were drown'd; Hallelujah Cresendo Shall be his glad lay When Da'Capo the Trumpet shall sound."

"The shameless Chloe placed on the tombs of her seven husbands the inscription, "The work of Chloe." How could she have expressed herself more plainly?"

"Requiescat in pace."

""In his last binn Sir Peter lies." * * * * He kept at true humour's mark The social flow of pleasure's tide: He never made a brow look dark, Nor caused a tear, but when he died."

"Kneller, by Heaven and not a master taught Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought, * * * * * * Living great Nature fear'd he might outvie Her works; and dying, fears herself may die."

"Heralds and statesmen, by your leave, Here lies what once was Matthew Prior; The son of Adam and of Eve; Can Bourbon or Nassau go higher?"

"Jam portum inveni, Spes et Fortuna valete. Nil mihi vobiscum est, ludite nunc alios."

"The world's a book, writ by th' eternal Art Of the great Maker; printed in man's heart; 'Tis falsely printed though divinely penn'd, And all the Errata will appear at th' end."

"Warm summer sun, shine friendly here; Warm western wind, blow kindly here; Green sod above, rest light, rest light— Good-night, Annette! Sweetheart, good-night."

"Howe: Howe: who is heare: I, Robin of Doncaster, and Margaret my feare. That I spent, that I had; That I gave, that I have; That I left, that I lost."

"Earth walks on Earth, Glittering in gold; Earth goes to Earth, Sooner than it wold; Earth builds on Earth, Palaces and towers; Earth says to Earth, Soon, all shall be ours."

"Sit tua terra levis."

"Good Frend for Jesvs Sake Forbeare, To Digg the Dvst Encloased Heare. Blese be ye Man yt Spares Thes Stones. And Cvrst be he yt Moves my Bones."

"Let no man write my epitaph; let my grave Be uninscribed, and let my memory rest Till other times are come, and other men, Who then may do me justice."

"The turf has drank a Widow's tear; Three of her husbands Slumber here."

"I, whom Apollo sometime visited, Or feigned to visit, now, my day being done, Do slumber wholly, nor shall know at all The weariness of changes; nor perceive Immeasurable sands of centuries Drink up the blanching ink, or the loud sound Of generations beat the music down."

"Now when the number of my years Is all fulfilled and I From sedentary life Shall rouse me up to die, Bury me low and let me lie Under the wide and starry sky. Joying to live, I joyed to die, Bury me low and let me lie."

"Emigravit, is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed,—for the artist never dies."

"Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde: Have mercy o' my soul, Lord God; As I wad do, were I Lord God, And ye were Martin Elginbrodde."

"This work, newly revised and improved by its great Author, will reappear in a splendid day."

"Ci gît l'enfant gâté du monde qu'il gâta."

"Jacet ecce Tibullus; Vix manet e toto parva quod urna capit."

"Molliter ossa cubent."

"Postquam est mortem aptus Plautus: comœdia luget Scena deserta, dein risus ludus jocusque Et numeri innumeri simul omnes collacrumarunt."

"Under this marble, or under this sill, Or under this turf, or e'en what they will, Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead, Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head, Lies one who ne'er car'd, and still cares not a pin What they said or may say of the mortal within; But who, living and dying, serene, still and free, Trusts in God that as well as he was he shall be."

"Calmly he looked on either Life, and here Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear: From Nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfy'd, Thank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died."

"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gained no title, and who lost no friend, Ennobled by himself, by all approved, And praised, unenvied, by the muse he loved."

"Johnny Carnegie lais heer Descendit of Adam and Eve, Gif ony cou gang hieher, I'se willing give him leve."

"In Fortunam Inveni portum spes et fortuna valete Nil mini vobiscum ludite nunc alios."

"Speme e Fortuna, addio; che' in porto entrai. Schernite gli altri; ch'io vi spregio omai."

"I came at morn—'twas spring, I smiled, The fields with green were clad; I walked abroad at noon,—and lo! 'Twas summer,—I was glad; I sate me down; 'twas autumn eve, And I with sadness wept; I laid me down at night, and then 'Twas winter,—and I slept."

"The World's a Printing-House, our words, our thoughts, Our deeds, are characters of several sizes. Each Soul is a Compos'tor, of whose faults The Levites are Correctors; Heaven Revises. Death is the common Press, from whence being driven, We're gather'd, Sheet by Sheet, and bound for Heaven."

"She was—but room forbids to tell thee what— Sum all perfection up, and she was—that."

"Lo, all that ever I spent, that sometime had I; All that I gave in good intent, that now have I; That I never gave, nor lent, that now aby I; That I kept till I went, that lost I."

"It that I gife, I haif, It that I len, I craif, It that I spend, is myue, It that I leif, I tyne."

"The earthe goeth on the earthe Glisteringe like gold; The earthe goeth to the earthe Sooner than it wold; The earthe builds on the earthe Castles and Towers; The earthe says to the earthe All shall be ours."

"Then haste, kind Death, in pity to my age, And clap the Finis to my life's last page. May Heaven's great Author my foul proof revise, Cancel the page in which my error lies, And raise my form above the etherial skies. * * * * * * * * The stubborn pressman's form I now may scoff; Revised, corrected, finally worked off!"