And while after dinner the night came so soon
That half she propos’d very seldom was done;
With twenty God bless me’s, how this day is gone!—

While she read and accounted and paid and abated,
Eat and drank, play’d and work’d, laugh’d and cried, lov’d and hated,
As answer’d the end of her being created:

In the midst of her age came a cruel disease
Which neither her juleps nor receipts could appease;
So down dropp’d her clay—may her Soul be at peace!

Retire from this sepulchre all the profane,
You that love for debauch, or that marry for gain,
Retire lest ye trouble the Manes of J—.

But thou that know’st love above int’rest or lust,
Strew the myrtle and rose on this once belov’d dust,
And shed one pious tear upon Jinny the Just.

Tread soft on her grave, and do right to her honor,
Let neither rude hand nor ill tongue light upon her,
Do all the small favors that now can be done her.

And when what thou lik’d shall return to her clay,
For so I’m persuaded she must do one day
—Whatever fantastic J[ohn] Asgill may say—

When as I have done now, thou shalt set up a stone
For something however distinguished or known,
May some pious friend the misfortune bemoan,
And make thy concern by reflexion his own.

439   For my own Monument

AS doctors give physic by way of prevention,
   Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care;
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
   May haply be never fulfill’d by his heir.

Then take Mat’s word for it, the sculptor is paid;
   That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,
   For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,
   His virtues and vices as other men’s were;
High hopes he conceived, and he smother’d great fears,
   In a life parti-colour’d, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
   He strove to make int’rest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
   And, alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
   Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;
And whirl’d in the round as the wheel turn’d about,
   He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polish’d, tho’ mighty sincere,
   Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;
It says that his relics collected lie here,
   And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
   So Mat may be kill’d, and his bones never found;
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,
   So Mat may yet chance to be hang’d or be drown’d.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
   To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
And if passing thou giv’st him a smile or a tear,
   He cares not—yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.