University of Virginia Library

HOPE RUIN'D.

Upon the Death of the Right Honourable the Lady Mary Mannors, youngest Daughter to the Noble House of Rutland.

So long I staid (in vain, alas!) to try
If other Tributes than those from the Eye,
Would have been offer'd at her Virgin-Shrine;
But must, it seems, begin with this of mine.
Let others Marble give her Tomb to grace;
It will my Glory be to pave the place.
Tho their bright Torches on her Herse must shine;
'Tis Honour that this twinckling Lamp of mine
Did glimmer first: so does Aurora run,
As Usher to the Lord of Wit, the Sun.
When Church doors are shut up, true Pray'rs may please,
Though they be offer'd up in Cottages.
But yet, methinks, 'tis odd to cherish Woes;
Verse quickens Grief that is but flat in Prose.
Ingenious Lines but too much deck an Herse,
And briny Tears pickle up Grief in Verse.
Yet 'tis our Fate here; who like Merchants lose
Our Treasures first, and then proclaim our Woes.
Her Actions were Examples; so that still
Those Ladies that don't practice her do ill.
She did excell the strictest Cloister'd Saint;
Affected Purity is worse than Paint.
And now she's gone, if Poets will declare,
And tell what Beauties other Ladies are,
They must get Praises from her parts, and tell
These Coral Lips, almost like hers, do swell;
Those Eyes resemble hers, that Ladies face
Has her sweet Features, this her winning Grace.
Each piece of hers makes perfect and compleat:
Thus a King's Ruines make ten thousand great.
So when the Sun is set, the Queen of Night
Borrows her shining Glory from his Light.
Sad Fate! thus when a Rose-tree dies at foot,
A croud of Beauties perish with the Root.
Let none then blame our Grief; 'tis not for one,
But for the Ruines of a Million.