AN EPITAPH. On the Worst, and most Wicked of all Mankind, C. I. Who Died on the 6 th'. of June. 1681.  

THE veriest Villain e'er was born,  
The Goodman's great Contempt and Scorn  
Lies here Interred, if BELZEBUB  
han't Pickled him in's Powdering-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 Paltry 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 Inflame  
And scatter Coals where  he came.   

But mark! Those Coals this busy Elf  
Scattered abroad, consumed himself  
To Cinders, who Died, which you please,  
Of the POX, or Foul Disease.  
Yet were the Fates in one thing kind,  
In striking him beforehand 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 leisure may'st Learn Wit,  
And warning take by Cursed Kit.    

London, Printed by G. L. for the Author. 1681.