Is this the monument of Leonato?

It is, my lord.

Epitaph.

Was the Hero that here lies:

Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,

So the life that died with shame

Hang thou there upon the tomb,

Praising her when I am dumb.

Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.

Song.

Those that slew thy virgin knight;

For the which, with songs of woe,

Round about her tomb they go.

Midnight, assist our moan;

Help us to sigh and groan,

Graves, yawn and yield your dead,

Now, unto thy bones good night!

Yearly will I do this rite.

Good morrow, masters: put your torches out.

The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day,

Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about

Dapples the drowsy East with spots of grey.

Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.

Good morrow, masters: each his several way.

Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds;

And then to Leonato’s we will go.

And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s,

Than this for whom we rend’red up this woe!