Stepney.

Here remains all that was mortal

OF ROGER CRAB *,

who entered into eternity the 11th day of September, 1680, in the 60th year of his age.

Tread gently, reader, near the dust
Committed to this tomb-stone's trust;
For while 'twas flesh, it held a guest,
With universal love possest;
A soul, that stemm'd opinion's tide,
Did over sects in triumph ride:
Yet seperate from the giddy crowd,
And paths tradition had allow'd;
Thro' good and ill reports he past,
Oft censur'd, yet approv'd at last,
Would'st thou his religion know?
In brief 'twas this-to all to do
Just as he would be done unto;
So in kind's nature's laws he stood,
A temple undefil'd with blood,

A friend to every thing that's good;
The rest-angels alone can fitly tell;

Haste then to them and him; and so farewell.

Stepney.

D. O. M..

Here under was laid up the body of

SIR THOMAS SPERT, Knight,

Some time comptroler of the Navy to King Henry VIII. and both the first founder and master of the worthy Society of the Corporation of Trinity House. He lived enobled by his own worth, and died the 8th of September, 1541. To whose pious memory the said Corporation has gratefully erected this memorial.

Not that he needed monument of stone
For his well gotten fame to rest upon;
But this was rear'd to testify that he
Lives in their loves that yet surviving be;
For unto virtue, who first rais'd his name,
He left the preservation of the same;

And to posterity remain it shall,

When brass and marble monuments do fall.

Learn for to die whilst thou hast breath,

So shalt thou live after thy death.

Anno Domini, 1622, by the Company of the Trinity House this monument was erected 81 years after the decease of their Founder.

St. Giles in the Fields,

Under this sad marble sleepes
Shee for whom e'en marble weepes;
Her praise lives still, tho' here she lies,
Seeming dead, that never dies;
Religion, love, in suffering breast,

Her charity, mildness, and the rest,

Hath crown'd her soule; all mourne with fame
Her husband's losse, and midwife's blame;
Shee died in childbed, seventy times blest and seven,
Her child and shee deliver'd both in heaven.

MARGARETTA THORNTON,

obiit octavo die Januarii, A. D. 1611, æt. suæ 16.

Round the Margin.

Full south this stone four foot, doth lye
His father John, and grandsire Henry

Thornton, of Thornton in Yorkshire bred,
Where lives the fame of Thornton's being dead.

In the Chapel of Ludgate was hung a copper plate with the following Inscription:

Devout soules that passe this way,

For Stephen Foster late Maior, heartily pray;
And Dame Agnes his spouse, to God consecrate,

That of pitie, this house made for Londoners in Lud

gate,

So that for lodging and water, pris'ners here nought

pay,

As their keepers shall all answer at dreadful doomesday.

Sir Stephen Foster, it appears, considerably enlarged the prison of Ludgate, and contributed much to the care of poor debtors confined therein: he having been himself a prisoner, was by a certain rich widow interrogated what sum would discharge him? He replied twenty pounds; which she generously disbursed and taking him into her service, he, by an indefatigable application to business, gained the affection of his mistress to that degree that she made him her husband; and having greatly enriched himself by commerce, bethought himself of the place of his confimement, and having acquainted his lady with his design, they both heartily set about so good a work. This was finished in 1454.

In the Abbey Church, Batk.

In remembrance of

WILLIAM JEPHSON ESQ.

Serjeant at Law,

Who died the 17th May, 1772, aged 38 years.

To him, who here with kindred ashes lies,
Fraternal love this tribute due supplies;

To him, whose years, amidst this vale of strife,
Fulfill'd the promise of an useful life;

Whose studious love, from selfish dross refin'd,
Still made the law the bulwark of mankind;

What tho' no consort weeps or children mourn, O'er a lov'd husband's or a father's urn;

Yet many a widow, orphan, youth, and maid, Whose helpless state confess'd his saving aid; On this cold stone may drop the greateful tear, And sighing cry---behold your guardian here!

ON MARGARET RATCLIFFE.

Marble, weep, for thou do'st cover
A dead beauty underneath thee
Rich as nature could bequeath thee:
Grant then, no rude hand remove her.

All the gazers on the skies

Read not in fair heav'ns story,

Expresser truth, truer glory,

Than they might in her bright eyes.

Rare as wonder was her wit;
A nd like Nectar ever flowing:
Till time, strong by her bestowing,
Conquer'd hath both life and it.
Life whose grief was out of fashion;
In these times few so have ru'd
Fate in a brother. To conclude,
For wit, feature, and true passion,
Earth, thou hast not such another.