Epistle LX. An Epitaph

IF beauty, birth, or friends, or virtue cou'd
Preserve from putrefaction flesh and bloud,
This Lady had still liv'd; and had all those,
And all that Nature, Art or Grace bestowes.
But death regards not bad or good;
All that's mortal is his food.
Only here our comfort lyes,
Though death does all sorts confound,
Her better part surmounts the skies,
While her Body sleeps i'th ground.
Her soul returns to God, from whom it came,
And her great virtues do embalm her name.