 | A Collection of Poems on Various Subjects |  |
In Remembrance of my Friend,
Mary Penington.
Upon
September's eighteenth Day,
In sixteen hundred eighty two,
Death took a virtuous Dame away,
Who of her Equals left but few;
She Widow was, but now is gone
To Springett and to Penington.
In sixteen hundred eighty two,
Death took a virtuous Dame away,
Who of her Equals left but few;
33
To Springett and to Penington.
For personal Endowments held
She justly was, to few behind;
But those wherein she most excell'd,
Were the Endowments of the Mind:
My Pen, I fear, would wrong her Worth,
Should I attempt to set them forth.
She justly was, to few behind;
But those wherein she most excell'd,
Were the Endowments of the Mind:
My Pen, I fear, would wrong her Worth,
Should I attempt to set them forth.
I therefore purposely abstain,
From seeking Words, to speak her Praise,
I know 'twould Labour be in vain,
Her Fame no Words can higher raise;
Let others sing her Worth, while I
Honour and love her Memory.
From seeking Words, to speak her Praise,
I know 'twould Labour be in vain,
Her Fame no Words can higher raise;
Let others sing her Worth, while I
Honour and love her Memory.
| A Collection of Poems on Various Subjects | |