 | Poems upon various subjects |  |
114
AN EPITAPH. IN IMITATION OF DRYDEN.
Under this marble stone intomb'd are laidThe precious relicts of a pious Maid,
A Form too lovely to be snatch'd away,
A Mind too good to make a longer stay;
So many Virtues to that Form were giv'n,
Nature mistook, and made her first for heav'n;
Or else 'twas Chance, and from the mould'ring frame
Leapt out a Goddess, what was meant a Dame;
Th'impression of a lucky hit she bore,
Nature ne'er made a Masterpiece before;
And then, Oh! ever jealous of our joy,
Blest us to curse, and made her to destroy.
Had she not liv'd, the world had never known,
What various talents might unite in one;
And, Oh! sad trial, had she never died,
Her sex had wanted Virtues to divide.
| Poems upon various subjects | |