 | The Poetry of George Wither |  |
7. AN EPITAPH UPON THE PORTER OF A PRISON.
Here lie the bones of him that was of lateA churlish porter of a prison gate.
Death many an evening at his lodging knock'd,
But could not take him, for the door was lock'd;
Yet at a tavern late one night he found him,
And getting him into the cellar, drown'd him.
On which the world, that still the worst is thinking,
Reports abroad that he was kill'd with drinking;
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Rejoice, as if his fortune were the better;
Their sorrow's likely to be ne'er the shorter,
The warden lives, though death hath took the porter.
| The Poetry of George Wither | |