Epitaph
Here—for they could not help but die—
The daughters of the Rose-Bush lie:
Here rest, interred without a stone,
What dear Lucinda gave to none,—
What forward beau, or curious belle,
Could hardly touch, and rarely smell.
Dear Rose! of all the blooming kind
You had a happier place assigned,
And nearer grew to all that ’s fair,
And more engaged Lucinda’s care,
Than ever courting, coaxing swain,
Or ever all who love, shall gain.