An Epitaph on my Dear Aunt, Mrs. Ann Stanhope

Forbear, bold Passenger, forbear
The verge of this sad Sepulchre:
Put off thy shooes, nor dare to tread
The Hallowed Earth, where she lyes dead:
For in this Vault the Magazine
Of Female virtue's stor'd, and in
This Marble Casket is confin'd
The Iewel of all Woman-kind.

For here she lies, whose Spring was Crown'd
With every grace in Beauty found;
Whose Summer to that Spring did suit,
Whose Autumn crackt with happy Fruit.

Whose Fall was like her Life, so spent,
Exemplary, and Excellent.

For here the fairest, chastest Maid,
That this Age ever knew, is laid:
The best of Kindred, best of Friends,
of most Faith, and of fewest Ends;
Whose Fame the Tracks of Time survives;
The best of Mothers, best of Wives.

Lastly, which the whole Sum of praise implies,
Here she, who was the best of Women, lies.