THE EPITAPH.
HERE, five feet deep, lies on his back
A cobbler, starmonger, and quack;
Who, to the stars in pure good will,
Does to his best look upward still.
Weep, all you customers that use
His pills, his almanacks, or shoes:
And you that did your fortune seek,
Step to his grave but once a week;
This earth, which bears his body's print,
You'll find has so much virtue in 't,
That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell,
Whatever concerns you full as well,
In physick, stolen goods, or love,
As he himself could, when above.
MERLIN'S PROPHECY. 1709.
SEVEN and ten, addyd to nine,
Of Fraunce her woe this is the sygne,
Tamys rivere twys y-frozen,
Walke sans wetyng shoes ne hozen.
Then comyth foorthe, ich understonde,
From towne of stoffe to fattyn londe,
An hardie chyftan[1], woe the morne,
To Fraunce that evere he was born.
Then shall the fyshe[2] beweyle his bosse:
Nor shall grin berrys[3] make up the losse.
Yonge
