 | Aretophel |  |
On the Death of that most Excellent Lady Marie Countesse of Buccleuche.
Could Vertue make Immortal but in name,Or could greate birth of noble blood descended
From common destiny a freedome clayme,
No day this Lady's dayes should ere haue ended.
Could Pietie exeeme from Natures lawe
Or Charitie divert the fatale doome;
This modest Beauty had keept Death in awe,
Nor had her spoiles enrich'd this mourning Tombe.
Heaven jealous of our blesse enjoying Her,
Whose Soule in longing sighes theyre Glorie sought,
Haue rob'd us of Her worthe at unaware,
And all our hopes are now to nothing brought.
O Woefull worldlings! wee may truely say
Since Shee is dead and gone, All Fleshe is Hay.
G. LAVDER.
| Aretophel | |