Sect. 30.
Of the woman dying with griefe; Her Funerall.
Mvse dip thy quill in blood, or teares of myne
Shall change thy inke, and turne it into brine:
Make sad thy selfe; and when that envious night
Doth cast a vaile to rob thee of the light
(Being clad in darknesse) then do thou begin
To mend thy pen, and bring those Vipers in.
Draw now thy plaint for the poore womans sake!
And for her children; hark! what moane they make?
Call in those neighbours that have grief, to spare,
To joyne their hearts, and help to beare a share.
A wife, a mother, is in such distresse;
Dry grief nor teares can never it expresse!
Let strangers come, and pitty her, and say
Alas, alas! poore soule she's cast away!
Pray stay a while, (for I invite you all)
'T'attend her corps unto the Funerall:
You should have wine and comfits; but the cleft
Is grown so barren, that there is nothing left.
Grief burn'd within her, to a raging flame;
No teares were left to qualifie the same;
Being spent, she fell; and then she eald her head;
The heaviest living; but the lightest dead.
The Nightingal did to the black bird sing,
And Robin Red-brest spoke no other thing:
The Thrush, the Starling of her death did prate,
The Lark had come too; but it was too late.
All beasts did mourne (but some with grief were prest)
Save one that joy'd which was a savage beast.
Grave, use her kindly; grief hath made thee gaine her!
Wormes, grumble not, but gently entertaine her!
'Tis not her fault, you have no better cheere.
Call but a few; 'twill one day cost you deare:
When death comes to arrest you, for her sake:
You for the spoile must restitution make.
Her Epitaph.
View
well this heap of dust, drop down a teare
To moisten it, let every tender hart
Mourne o're this honest woman (call in feare)
I'le praise those that begin, and beare a part.
Her husband with his whore desir'd her death,
He mov'd with pitty tooke away her breath.
