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176
The VIRGIN.
Epitaph upon my dear S. Mrs. S. S.
1677.
If
Dust imbalm'd inricht the Soyl,
Making such Tombs intice to spoil;
She needs must yield a richer prize,
Imbalm'd with Virtue more than Spice.
This Stone she turns into a Shrine,
Making the Grave become a Mine.
Her precious worth, like Ingotts, shines,
And is new minted in these Lines.
Making such Tombs intice to spoil;
She needs must yield a richer prize,
Imbalm'd with Virtue more than Spice.
This Stone she turns into a Shrine,
Making the Grave become a Mine.
Her precious worth, like Ingotts, shines,
And is new minted in these Lines.
Read, if thou canst, with unwet eyes,
Where Vertues Darling bury'd lies.
Fair as the Sun; yet scorn'd to twist
Her Virgin Splendor with a Mist;
Chaster than Snow, unmelted tryes
The hottest beames of amorous eyes.
Her Looks, at Sin and Lust incens'd,
Like Cherubim her Eden fenc'd.
Where Vertues Darling bury'd lies.
Fair as the Sun; yet scorn'd to twist
Her Virgin Splendor with a Mist;
Chaster than Snow, unmelted tryes
The hottest beames of amorous eyes.
Her Looks, at Sin and Lust incens'd,
Like Cherubim her Eden fenc'd.
Yet if the World can imitate
Her Vertues, tis a happier fate
Than if she had left Children here.
These mortal, those immortal are.
Her Vertues, tis a happier fate
Than if she had left Children here.
These mortal, those immortal are.
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