Poems | ||
An Epitaph on Mrs. E. VV.
Reader, if thy indulgent eyes can spareBut so much brine as will make up a teare,
Let pietie ingage thee here to lave
That moisture out upon this beauties grave,
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Roses and od'rous Violets, to redeeme
(By pow'ring forth a balmy dew) her dust
From putrid vapours, and her tomb from rust:
For modesty, truth, zeale, and meeknesse have
A sad interment too, within her grave,
Nay even all the vertues are become
Her Inmates, and do lodge within her tombe;
So that she forc'd us, when she liv'd, to say,
She was an Angell cloth'd in weeds of clay,
Which to approve when her faire soule was cloy'd
With the worlds tumults (which yet still injoy'd
A calme of peace, 'mongst all the noise of men)
She threw off earth, and fled to heaven agen.
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