An Epitaph: Here Lies Edward Bond, Esq. Poem by Samuel Bowden

No marble pomp, no monumental praise,
My tomb this dial, epitaph these lays.
Pride, and low moldering dust but ill agree,
Death levels me to beggars, kings to me.
Alive, instruction was my work each day;
Dead, I persist instruction to convey.
Here Reader mark, perhaps now in thy prime,
The stealing steps of never-standing time;
Thou'lt be what I am, catch the present hour,
Employ it well, for that is in thy power.