Poems Divine, and Humane | ||
On the death of Mris. M. T.
Mistaken virgins, do not drop a teare,She is not dead beleev't, I'le make 't appeare:
That which you call a hearse, is nought beside
A heavenly charet, in't a glorious bride.
And that which you more fondly terme a grave,
Mysterious heaven, for her bride-bed gave
Thus you mistaken, to a funerall haste,
When you're invited to a marriage feast:
Heaven was her lover, would not be deny'd,
The welcome promise of so faire a Bride.
Which long since having, hee now thought it best
T'espouse, and take her to his happy rest.
Their royall consorts, they by proxie make
The ceremonious marriage; so did hee,
By proxie death, wed her immortally:
And now inthron'd, she doth sit and sing,
Divinest Anthems to her Lord and King.
'Mongst quires of Angels, she doth fill the skies,
With sweete tun'd notes of heavenly rapsidies.
Thus gloriously happy doth shee still live,
Whose death you fondly, and unkindly grieve.
Em. D.
Poems Divine, and Humane | ||