An Epitaph.

Here lies one who never drew Blood himself, yet many slew; Gave the gun its aim, and figure Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger. Armed men have gladly made Him their guide, and him obey'd; At his signified desire Would advance, present, and fire— Stout he was, and large of limb, Scores have fled at sight of him! And to all this fame he rose Only following his nose. Neptune was he call'd, not he Who controls the boisterous sea, But of happier command, Neptune of the furrow'd land; And, your wonder vain to shorten, Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.