St. Helen's Church, London.

SIR THOMAS GRESHAM, Knight,

Was buried December the 15th, 1579.

Stowe, Buckinghamshire.

SIR THOMAS GRESHAM,
Who, by the honourable profession of a
Merchant,

Having enriched himself and his country,
For carrying on the commerce of the world,
Built the Royal Exchange.

The timber which originally built the Royal Exchange, was all taken from, and framed on, sir Thomas's estate, at Battisford, near Stowmarket, in the county of Suffolk. Battisford tye is a large common of about 200 acres, where the sawing pits remain to this day. When the new edifice was opened, queen Elizabeth (Jan. 29, 1570) came and dined with the founder; and caused a herald with a trumpet to proclaim it by the name of the Royal Exchange.

FOR G. H. ESQ.

The poor man weeps-here G-n sleeps,

Whom canting wretches blam'd:

But with such as he, where'er he be,

May I be sav'd or d-d!

ON THE LATE REV. JOSEPH FAWCETT,

Who, when he was most admired as a preacher, withdrew, and spent the remainder of his life in retirement at Walthamstow, in Essex.

He, whom the listening crowd admir'd,
With virtue fraught, by fancy fir'd
Here sleeps; and numbers careless pass,
Without inquiring what he was.

A preacher, with whom few compare,
More full than Barrow, soft than Blair.
Preacher of no mysterious school,
Nor of the church or state a tool.
His sermons were by taste confess'd
True wisdom, by the muses dress'd;
Admiring thousands catch the flame,
And join to spread the preacher's fame.
But no! the man of lofty mind

Such modesty with worth combin'd,
That, stealing from the noisy throng,
He, silent, dwelt the shades among,
Chusing the nobler, better part,
To cultivate poetic art;

And, his whole soul in peace possess'd,
Lash'd war*, in its dread glories dress'd,
O! reader, pause! with awe profound,
Where Fawcett sleeps, 'tis holy ground!

He wrote a poem on War.

The famous John of Gaunt gave Sutton Park, Bedfordshire to Sir Roger Burgoyne by the following laconic will, still preserved in Doctor's Commons:

"I, John of Gaunt,

Do give and do grant
Unto Roger Burgoyne,
And the heirs of his loin,
Both Sutton and Potten,
Until the world's rotten."

Shrewsbury.

In 1739, the weather-cock was blown on one side, when a person of the name of Cadman engaged to take it down, which he soon afterwards did, and then put it in its place again. He fixed a rope from the top of the spire to a tree in a field on the opposite side of the river, and to various other places; and for a few times slided from thence without any injury: but on candlemass day in the same year, after beating a drum, firing pistols, &c. he attempted to slide down the rope across the river, but it broke soon after he had trusted his weight upon it, and he was consequently dashed to pieces. He was buried on the same day, the 2nd of February, 1739, at the foot of the steeple, and a plain slab was fixed to the wall over his grave, with this quaint inscription now scarcely legible:

Let this fatal monument record the name
Of Cadman, and to future times proclaim

How by an attempt to fly from this high spire,
Across the Sabrine stream, he did acquire
His fatal end. "Twas not for want of skill,
Or courage to perform the task, he fell,

No, no, a faulty cord, being drawn too tight
Hurried his soul on high to take her flight,
Which bid the body, here beneath, good night.

On the Rev. Dr. Waldo,

Here lies death's chum, facetious Peter,
Both a good fuzzer*, and good eater,
He eat and fuzz'd till seventy-four,
Then died content-what could he more?

* Drinker, one of Dr. Waldo's cant words.

Shrewsbury.

In the Church-yard but now almost obliterated, is an inscription to the memory of William White, a Quarter-master of horse, in the reign of William

In Irish wars I fought for England's glory;
Let no man scoff at telling of this story.

I saw great Schomberg fall, likewise the brave St.

Ruth,

And here I come to die, not there in my youth. Through dangers great I have pass'd many a storm, Die we all must, as sure as we are born.

FOR: R. A. ESQ.

Know thou, O stranger, to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

ON KATHARINE GRAY,

Who kept a Potter's Shop at Chester.

Beneath this stone lies old Katharine Gray,
Chang'd from a busy life to lifeless clay ;
By earth and clay she got her pelf
But now is turn'd 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 broad pan,
She in her shop may be again?