Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
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An Elegy upon Mr. Robert Doughty of Grayes Inn, depriv'd of his Spouse.
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An Elegy upon Mr. Robert Doughty of Grayes Inn, depriv'd of his Spouse.
Thy generous humour, and approved wit,
To after Ages shall thy Name transmit.
Whilst thy dear Memory lives with us, and shall
With the World only have a Funeral.
True, he whose Coffin in a Church finds room,
Has both the walls, and windows for his Tomb.
But thou dost neighbour to the vulgar lay,
To consecrate (as 'twere) their common clay.
That when we cease our sorrows to pursue,
Heaven may supply thy Urn with kindlyer dew.
That on thy Grave thy Vertue's flowers may grow
Till Winter on thee Pearls and Diamonds strow.
To after Ages shall thy Name transmit.
Whilst thy dear Memory lives with us, and shall
With the World only have a Funeral.
True, he whose Coffin in a Church finds room,
Has both the walls, and windows for his Tomb.
But thou dost neighbour to the vulgar lay,
To consecrate (as 'twere) their common clay.
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Heaven may supply thy Urn with kindlyer dew.
That on thy Grave thy Vertue's flowers may grow
Till Winter on thee Pearls and Diamonds strow.
Thy face, I pitty, Love and Fortunes rage,
To make Gray's Inn so long thy Hermitage.
Ah cruel Fair! Ah far from thy desert!
Thou brok'st thy mind to her has broke thy heart.
What time thou first did'st homage to her Eyes,
Thou wert her Servant, now her Sacrifice:
Let hearts play fast and loose, thou now art gone
Unto a witness, knows she was thine own.
VVho (ah! sometimes such Planets intervene)
But for her Mother, had a Mother been.
Where then is conscience? such is justice dearth,
That Matches made in Heaven, scarce hold on earth.
Farewell fond faith, false fickle female breath,
Ther's nothing certain this side Heaven but death.
To make Gray's Inn so long thy Hermitage.
Ah cruel Fair! Ah far from thy desert!
Thou brok'st thy mind to her has broke thy heart.
What time thou first did'st homage to her Eyes,
Thou wert her Servant, now her Sacrifice:
Let hearts play fast and loose, thou now art gone
Unto a witness, knows she was thine own.
VVho (ah! sometimes such Planets intervene)
But for her Mother, had a Mother been.
Where then is conscience? such is justice dearth,
That Matches made in Heaven, scarce hold on earth.
Farewell fond faith, false fickle female breath,
Ther's nothing certain this side Heaven but death.
In this, thy fate thy greatness does proclame,
A noble instance of a generous flame.
Nor yet condemn we her, who knows but she
May ope thy Grave, and come to Bed to thee.
Where you, whose stars deny'd it in your Life,
May mingle Ashes, and be Man and VVife.
And cloze in an inseparable Bliss,
No more a prey to Parents avarice.
And who can think she long behind should stay,
VVhose better half so bravely led the way?
A noble instance of a generous flame.
Nor yet condemn we her, who knows but she
May ope thy Grave, and come to Bed to thee.
Where you, whose stars deny'd it in your Life,
May mingle Ashes, and be Man and VVife.
And cloze in an inseparable Bliss,
No more a prey to Parents avarice.
And who can think she long behind should stay,
VVhose better half so bravely led the way?
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And now (blest shade) forgive our ruder verse,
Whose wither'd Bayes do but profane thy Herse.
Such thy beginning was, such was thy End,
Thy death it self does to the Life commend.
Such Rayes thy Morning, such thy Evening gate,
The Sun ne'er brighter rose, nor clearer sate.
Who writes thy Elegie must wake thy dust,
And beg assistance, if he wou'd be just.
For ours insipid is, yet not our fault,
VVhose Eyes, at present, take up all our Salt.
Whose wither'd Bayes do but profane thy Herse.
Such thy beginning was, such was thy End,
Thy death it self does to the Life commend.
Such Rayes thy Morning, such thy Evening gate,
The Sun ne'er brighter rose, nor clearer sate.
Who writes thy Elegie must wake thy dust,
And beg assistance, if he wou'd be just.
For ours insipid is, yet not our fault,
VVhose Eyes, at present, take up all our Salt.
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