Natures Picture Drawn by Fancies Pencil To the Life Being several Feigned Stories, Comical, Tragical, Tragi-comical, Poetical, Romancical, Philosophical, Historical, and Moral: Some in Verse, some in Prose; some Mixt, and some by Dialogues. Written by the Thrice Noble, Illustrious, and most Excellent Princess, The Duchess of Newcastle [i.e. Margaret Cavendish]. The Second Edition |
 |
|
|
|
 | Natures Picture Drawn by Fancies Pencil To the Life |  |
A Lady on her Death-bed panting lay,
She call'd her Friends, and thus to them did say:
Farewel my dearest Friends, for I must go
Unto a place which you nor I yet know:
May be my Sp'rit will wander in the shade
Of glimmering light, which is by Moon-shine made:
Or in my Tomb in peace may lye asleep,
So long as Ashes in my Urn do keep.
Or else my Soul, like Birds, may have its wings,
Or like to Herc'les Flyes that want their stings.
But howsoever, Friends, grieve not, nor cry,
For fear my Soul should be disturb'd thereby:
Clothe not your selves with Melancholy black;
Call not your Grief unto remembrance back:
But let your Joys a Resurrection have,
Call'd forth by comfort from the sorrowful Grave.
Let not Delight intombed lye
In the sad Heart, or weeping Eye:
Let not pale Grief my Soul affright,
Shrouded in Melanch'ly's dark Night:
But Death, said she, I fear him not;
So turn'd her head, and Death her shot.
She call'd her Friends, and thus to them did say:
Farewel my dearest Friends, for I must go
Unto a place which you nor I yet know:
May be my Sp'rit will wander in the shade
Of glimmering light, which is by Moon-shine made:
Or in my Tomb in peace may lye asleep,
So long as Ashes in my Urn do keep.
Or else my Soul, like Birds, may have its wings,
Or like to Herc'les Flyes that want their stings.
But howsoever, Friends, grieve not, nor cry,
For fear my Soul should be disturb'd thereby:
Clothe not your selves with Melancholy black;
Call not your Grief unto remembrance back:
But let your Joys a Resurrection have,
Call'd forth by comfort from the sorrowful Grave.
Let not Delight intombed lye
In the sad Heart, or weeping Eye:
Let not pale Grief my Soul affright,
Shrouded in Melanch'ly's dark Night:
But Death, said she, I fear him not;
So turn'd her head, and Death her shot.
126
Then on a Cypress Hearse was laid forth dead;
As scorning Death, aside was turn'd her head:
By cruel Death her arms were careless flung;
Her hands over the sides as strengthless hung:
Her eyes were clos'd, as if she lay asleep;
Though she was pale, her face did sweetness keep.
As scorning Death, aside was turn'd her head:
By cruel Death her arms were careless flung;
Her hands over the sides as strengthless hung:
Her eyes were clos'd, as if she lay asleep;
Though she was pale, her face did sweetness keep.
Her Elogie was thus:
Tears rain a-pace, and so a River make,To drown all Grief within a watry Lake.
Make Seas of Tears, for Wind of Sighs to blow
Salt Billows up, the Eyes to overflow:
Let Ships of Patience traffick on the Main,
To bring in Comfort to sad Hearts again.
| Natures Picture Drawn by Fancies Pencil To the Life | |