AN EPITAPH. On the Worst, and most Wicked of all Mankind, C. I. Who Dyed on the 6 th. of June. 1681.
THE veriest Villain e're was born,
The Goodmans great Contempt and Scorn
Lies here Inter'd, if
BELZEBƲB
Ha'nt Pickled him in's
Powdring-Tub.
His Name was
Kit, a Rogue (to tell
The Truth) worse than
ACHITOPHEL:
His Birth was base, and what more odd is,
His Dad a Maker was of Boddice;
Or as some Learned Men will have it,
Th' Evidence of an
Affidavit.
Nor did his Son Degenerate,
Who was far worse, I know not what:
A Pimp well known to every Harlot;
A Pettifogging Paultry Varlet;
A Rogue in Grain, though not in Scarlet,
Since he ne'er had the Grace to blush at
Those Crimes he only made a push at.
He was a Knave made up of strife,
A Mischief-maker all his Life;
An
Hand-Granada, to Enflame
And scatter Coals where e're he came.
But mark! Those Coals this busie Elfe
Scatter'd abroad, consum'd himself
To
Cinders, who Dyed, which you please,
Of the
POX, or
Foul Disease.
Yet were the Fates in one thing kind,
In striking him before-hand
Blind,
That he might not
behold, or
view
That
Shame his Sins had brought him to.
This (
Reader,) in great haste I writ,
That thou at leasure may'st Learn Wit,
And warning take by Cursed
Kit.
London, Printed by G. L. for the Author. 1681.