On the Death of a young Lady

THis Beauty which pale Death in Dust did turne,
And clos'd so soon within a Coffin sad,
Did passe like Lightning, like to Thunder burne;
So little Life, so much of Worth it had!
Heavens but to shew their Might here made it shine,
And when admir'd, then in the Worlds disdaine
(O Teares, O Griefe!) did call it back againe,
Lest Earth should vaunt she kept what was Divine,
What can we hope for more? what more enjoy?
Sith fairest things thus soonest have their End;
And, as on Bodies shadows do attend,
Sith all our Blisse is follow'd with Annoy?
She is not dead, she lives where she did love,
Her Memory on Earth, her sou…e above.

FOnd Wight, who dream'st of Greatness, Glory, State,
And Worlds of Pleasures, Honours dost devise,
Awake, Learne how that here thou art not Great,
Nor glorious, By this Monument turne wise.

One it enshrineth sprung of ancient stemm,
And (if that Bloud Nobility can make,)
From which some Kings have not disdain'd to take
Their proud Descent, a rare and matchlesse Gemm.

A Beauty here it holds by full assurance,
Than which no blooming Rose was more refin'd,
Nor Mornings Blush more radiant ever shin…d,
Ah! too too like to Morne and Rose at last.

It holds her who in Wits ascendant far
Did Yeares and Sex transcend, To whom the Heaven
More Vertue than to all this Age had given,
For Vertue Meteor turn'd, when she a star.

Faire Mirth, sweet Conversation, Modesty,
And what those Kings of Numbers did conceive
By Muses Nine, and Graces moe than Three,
Lye clos'd within the Compasse of this Grave.

Thus Death all Earthly glories doth confound,
Loe! how much Worth a little Dust doth bound.

FAr from these Bankes exiled be all Joyes,
Contentments, Pleasures, Musick (cares reliefe)
Tears, Sighs, Plaints, Horrours, Frightments, sad Annoies
Invest these Mountaines, fill all Hearts with Griefe.

Here Nightingals and Turtles vent your moanes;
Amphrisian Shepheard here come feed thy Flocke,
And read thy Hyacinth amidst our Groanes,
Plaine Eccho thy Narcissus from our Rocks.

Lost have our Meads their Beauty, Hills their Gemms,
Our Brooks their Christall, Groves their pleasant shade,
The fairest Flow'r of all our Anademms
Death cropped hath, the Lesbia chaste is dead.

Thus sigh'd the Tyne then shrunke beneath his Urne,
And Meads, Brooks, Rivers, Hills about did mourne.

THe Flower of Virgins in her Prime of yeares
By ruthlesse Destinies is ta'ne away,
And rap'd from Earth, poore Earth, before this Day,
Which ne're was rightly nam'd a Vale of Teares.

Beauty to Heaven is fled, sweet Modesty
No more appeares; She whose harmonious sounds
Did ravish Sense, and charme Minds deepest wounds,
Embaulm'd with many a Teare now low doth lye.

Faire Hopes now vanish'd are; She should have grac'd
A Princes Marriage-Bed; but (loe!) in Heaven
Blest Paramours to her were to be given!
She liv'd an Angell, now is with them plac'd.

Vertue is but a Name abstractly trimm'd,
Interpreting what she was in effect,
A shaddow from her Frame which did reflect,
A Pourtrait by her Excellencies limm'd.

Thou whom free-will or chance hath hither brought,
And read'st; Here lies a Branch of Maitlands stemm,
And S…ytons Off-spring; know that either Name
Designes all worth yet reacht by humane Thought.

Tombes (else-where) use Life to their Guests to give,
These Ashes can fraile Monuments make live.