AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER. THIS rich marble doth inter A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir, Added to her noble birth, More than she could own from earth. After so short time of breath, To house with darkness, and with death. Been as complete as was her praise, Nature and Fate had had no strife In giving limit to her life. Her high birth, and her graces sweet, Quickly found a lover meet; The virgin quire for her request The God that sits at marriage feast; He at their invoking came, But with a scarce well-lighted flame; And in his garland, as he stood, Ye might discern a cypress bud. Once had the early matrons run But, whether by mischance or blame, And with remorseless cruelty So have I seen some tender slip, Sav'd with care from winter's nip, The pride of her carnation train, Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain, Who only thought to crop the flower New shot up from vernal shower; But the fair blossom hangs the head Side-ways, as on a dying bed, And those pearls of dew, she wears, Prove to be presaging tears, Gentle Lady, may thy grave Peace and quiet ever have; After this thy travel sore Sweet rest seize thee evermore, That, to give the world encrease, And some flowers, and some bays, Sent thee from the banks of Came, Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitst in glory, Next her, much like to thee in story, Who, after years of barrenness, The highly favour'd Joseph bore To him that serv'd for her before, And at her next birth, much like thee, Far within the bosom bright Of blazing Majesty and Light: SONG ON MAY MORNING. Now the bright Morning-star, day's harbinger, Hill, and dale, doth boast thy blessing. |