Here Lies A Virgin, And As Sweet As E'Er Was Wrapt In Winding Sheet. Her Name If Next You Would Have Known, The Marble Speaks It, Mary Stone: Who Dying In Her Blooming Years, This Stone For Name'S Sake Melts To Tears. If, Fragrant Virgins, You'll But Keep A Fast, While Jets And Marbles Weep, And Praying, Strew Some Roses On Her, You'll Do My Niece Abundant Honour.