A seventeenth-century epitaph.

Upon an Usurer

Here lyes he underneath this stone,
That whilst he liv'd did good to none.
And therefore at the point to dye,
More cause had some to laugh then cry.
His eldest sonne thought he had wrong,
Because he lingred out so long,
But now he's dead, how ere he fares,
There's none that knows, nor none that cares.

Here on this site rests Mother Theresa.

O nun, beneath the earthen pall,
Who by thy works did thus to all:
Negated hate, negated sin;
One touching, solemn heroine.
Courageous nun! She understood;
One hundred thousand acts of good
Have crowned thee, saint of godly worth,
Who sleeps here underneath the earth.

Two similar romantic poems, made into anagrams by adding some commentary to each.

Requiescat For Isola Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow. Speak gently she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust. She that was young and fair Fallen to dust... Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap dirt upon it.

Did I unveil poetic coincidences? Yes:
Grave. Be very still please.
Me, I'd stay mum. I'd not thump.

Upon A Maid Here she lies (in bed of spice) Fair as Eve in Paradise: For her beauty it was such Poets could not praise too much. Virgins come, and in a ring Her supremest requiem sing; Then depart, but see ye tread Lightly, lightly o'er the dead.

A fortunate total arty parallel coincidence:
Shh! grave. Shh! walk silently, delicately.
Shh! no running, Wilde, where the tiny dead lass rests.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona, IV, ii, 40-44

Who is Silvia? what is she,
   That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
   The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.

Sylvia's cool then, saith this dude;
In fact the gal, she charms him.
See her ass, (A whore? I? lewd?)
Her darling bod disarms him.
What a view, eh? In the nude!

The first stanza of Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
(later used for the fourth Awardsmaster's Challenge).

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

'Twas eerie, and the evil worms
Did slither by. O, in the gloom,
All hairy were the maggot germs,
And bugs and bats, live, by the tomb.

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