Here's an epitaph that Franklin composed for himself when he was only 22 years old:
The Body of B. Franklin,
Printer;
Like the Cover of an old Book,
Its Contents torn out,
And Stript of its Lettering and Gilding,
Lies here, Food for Worms.
But the Work shall not be wholly lost:
For it will, as he believ'd, appear once more,
In a new & more perfect Edition,
Corrected and Amended
By the Author.
That's pretty fantastic.
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