Epitaph on an old woman who kept a pottery-shop in Chester, England:
Beneath these stones lie old Kathering Gray,
Changed from a busy life to lifeless clay;
By earth and clay she got her pelf,
But now is turned to earth herself.
Ye weeping friends, let me advise,
Abate your grief and dry your eyes,
For what avails a flood of tears?
Who knows but in a run of years,
In some tall pitcher or bread pan,
She in her shop may be again?
On a tombstone in New Jersey:
Reader, pass on!—don’t waste your time
On bad biography and bitter rhyme:
For what I am, this crumbling clay insures,
And what I was, is no affair of yours!
Here rests an old woman who was always was tired,
For she lived in a house where no help was hired;
Her very last words were, “My friends I am goin;
To a land where there’s nothin’ of washin’ or sewin’,
And everything there shall be just to my wishes,
For where they don’t eat there’s no washin’ of dishes;
The land with sweet anthems is constantly ringin’,
But having no voice I’ll ge clear of the singin’.”
She folded her hands, her latest endeavor,
And whispered, “Oh nothin’, sweet nothin forever.”