Epitaphs

    Maria Brown,
Wife of Timothy Brown,
    aged 80 years.
She lived with her husband fifty years, and died
in the confident hope of a better life.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CCLX. Gaffers And Gammers.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCXXXIII. Games.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DLXX. Natural History.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Puns

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Epitaph For Maria Wentworth

And here the precious dust is laid;
Whose purely-temperd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betrayd.

Else the soul grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sin,
And so was hatchd a cherubin.

In height, it soard to God above;
In depth, it did to knowledge move,
And spread in breadth to general love.

Before, a pious duty shind
To parents, courtesy behind;
On either side an equal mind.

Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
To servants kind, to friendship clear,
To nothing but herself severe.

So, though a virgin, yet a bride
To evry grace, she justified
A chaste polygamy, and died.

Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
We owe this world, where virtue must,
Frail as our flesh, crumble to...

Thomas Carew

Epitaph On The Lady Whitmore.

Fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend in one,
Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost,
Here sadly summing what he had, and lost.
    Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first, and offer at her sacred shrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer life;
And wish your vows, like hers, may be return'd,
So loved when living, and when dead so mourn'd.

John Dryden

A Gentleman's Epitaph On Himself And A Lady, Who Were Buried Together

I dwelt in the shade of a city,
She far by the sea,
With folk perhaps good, gracious, witty;
But never with me.

Her form on the ballroom's smooth flooring
I never once met,
To guide her with accents adoring
Through Weippert's "First Set." {1}

I spent my life's seasons with pale ones
In Vanity Fair,
And she enjoyed hers among hale ones
In salt-smelling air.

Maybe she had eyes of deep colour,
Maybe they were blue,
Maybe as she aged they got duller;
That never I knew.

She may have had lips like the coral,
But I never kissed them,
Saw pouting, nor curling in quarrel,
Nor sought for, nor missed them.

Not a word passed of love all our lifetime,
Between us, nor thrill;
We'd never a husband-and-wife time,

Thomas Hardy

Epitaph - On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke

Underneath this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair and learn'd, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Marble piles let no man raise
To her name: for after days
Some kind woman born as she,
Reading this, like Niobe
Shall turn marble, and become
Both her mourner and her tomb.

William Browne

Epitaph - In Obitum M S, X° Maij, 1614

May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,
        Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring,
        Mine only died.

W. B.

William Browne

Epitaphs

An epitaph in an old Moravian cemetery reads thus:

Remember, friend, as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I;
As I am now thus you must be,
So be prepared to follow me.

There had been written underneath in pencil, presumably by some wag:

To follow you I'm not content
Till I find out which way you went.

Unknown