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 fortunes 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

Whate'er concerns you full as well,

In physic, stolen goods, or love,

As he himself could, when above.