An Elegie, and Epitaph for Mistris Abigail Sherard, Daughter to the Right Honourable Philip Baron of Lentrimm, written by one who honoured her Noble Family and Person.
TIs ten dayes since she dy'd, and though I slept,
Her solemne obsequies even then I kept:
Although I wore no blacks, colours for sorrow,
Which gracelesse sons and widows too oft borrow,
Who think their fathers liv'd too long and mourn
For that, or perhaps fear they should return,
I cannot (as the wilder Irish use)
Or screeke or houle, and so their dead abuse;
I can scarce weep, but I can sigh my part,
And keepe a solemne Funerall in my heart:
Sighs do but case the spleen, and teares the brain,
As clouds are eas'd by thunder and by raine.
I beg no case, nor do I crave reliefe,
My soule is happyest when I hug the griefe:
My soul looks upward then to her above,
And to its proper center seems to move,
Admit her fair, chaste, noble, young,
And fit for marriage, should I therefore wrong
My faith and hope? nay, for these love her lesse,
Or seem to doubt or feare her happinesse?
When I such sweet angelick creatures see,
I think how happy such fair souls must be,
When they refin'd and purifi'd shall rise,
How glorious then will shee be in our eyes?
As when the corne into the earth we throw,
Such do our bodies by corruption grow;
But when they rise, our bodies shall appear
More glorious then the corn in its full eare:
Admit us changed, yet we must be try'd,
By flames of fire as gold is purifi'd,
For my faith teaches me all in this world
Shall into Gods calcining pot be hurl'd,
And turn'd into a Calx, from which shall rise
Another world, too glorious for our eyes,
As now they are, for were they not refin'd,
Its glory (like the Sun) would strike us blinde.
Till that time, say, which is it thou can'st see
Which truly can deserve a smile from thee?
Save onely this, that death thou need'st not feare
If thou could'st either live or dye like her.
Nay, thou so far from feare of death should'st be
Thy eyes (like
Stephens) would thy Redeemer see
Sitting upon his Throne of glory, and
The sacred Legions round about him stand;
Nay, thou shalt heare them Halelujahs sing,
Praise, Honour, Glory, to th'eternall King.
Her Epitaph.
O Stay Viator passe not by!
But see who here entomb'd doth lye;
A fair, a noble vertuous Maid,
Belov'd of all, all debts she pay'd.
Courted by many all deny'd
Save death who chose her for his Bride;
Who unto her for Joynture gave
A Kingdom which shee's sure to have.
When ere he dyes, I dare say he
Who conquers him shall marry thee,
The Heire of all this earth, nay heaven,
He unto whom all power is given:
He unto whom we know was thy first love
In pain he keeps thy soul above
Untill the glorioas day which he
Designes his wedding day shall be.
'Tis true till then in Death's cold arms
Thou sleep'st, nor can'st be wak't by charms;
Untill the shrill trump of thy Lord
Shall waken thee, as once his word
Made
Lazarus, and
Tabitha to rise.
Then thou shalt see him with those eyes
But so refin'd, that thou shalt see
With faith, or hope could promise thee,
And really shalt enjoy more
Then they could promise thee before.
FINIS.