The history of the Tower of London is the history of Beauchamp Tower, and the history of Beauchamp Tower is the history of misfortune. Those visiting this three-story tower, built by Edward III in the latter half of the 14th century, see immediately upon entering countless remembrances on the walls around them, the manifest form of age upon age of enmity. All the resentment, all the indignation, all the anguish, and all the sorrow, along with the solace arising from extremes of resentment, indignation, anguish and sorrow, are here in some ninety one epigraphs that chill the viewer's heart as keenly now as ever. Those who carved in these unfeeling walls with pens of cold steel, who chiseled away here, between heaven and earth, to tell of their misfortunes and tragic fates, lie buried now in the bottomless pit that's the past, and it's only their vain words that still see the light of this world. One can't but wonder if self mockery wasn't some part of their intent. There's a thing in this world called irony. White is said where black is meant, and small is recited to conjure thoughts of large. Of all ironies, none is so potent as that unwittingly left behind for future generations. Gravestones, monuments, medallions, and cordons are nothing more than vain reminders of bygone ages. Those who would be mourned after their passing, I think, are those who've forgotten that while their relics remain, they themselves do not. In bequeathing their irony to future generations, I believe, they disparage the transient flesh. When I die, I'll leave behind no parting verse. After I'm dead, I'll have no gravestone erected. I care not that my flesh be burned, that my bones be powdered, that all be scattered under open sky by the westward gale.