An Elegie upon the Lady Venetia Digby.

DEath, who'ld not change prerogatives with thee,
That dost such rapes, yet mayst not question'd bee
Here cease thy wanton lust, be satisfi'd,
Hope not a second, and so faire a bride.
Where was her Mars, whose valiant armes did hold
This Venus once, that thou durst be so bold
By thy too nimble theft? I know 'twas feare,
Lest he should come, that would have rescu'd her.
Monster confesse, didst thou not blushing stand,
And thy pale cheeke turne red to touch her hand?
Did shee not lightning-like strike suddaine heat
Through thy cold limbs, and thaw thy frost to sweat?
Well since thou hast her, use her gently, Death,
And in requitall of such pretious breath
Watch sentinell to guard her, doe not see
The wormes thy rivals, for the Gods will bee.
Remember Paris, for whose pettier sin,
The Troian gates let the stout Grecians in;
So when time ceases, (whose unthrifty hand
Ha's now almost consum'd his stock of sand)
Myriads of Angels shall in Armies come,
And fetch (proud ravisher) there Helen home.
And to revenge this rape, thy other store
Thou shalt resigne too, and shalt steale no more.
Till then faire Ladies (for you now are faire,
But till her death I fear'd your just dispaire,)
Fetch all the spices that Arabia yeelds,
Distill the choycest flowers of the fields:
And when in one their best perfections meet
Embalme her course, that shee may make them sweet.
Whilst for an Epitaph upon her stone
I cannot write, but I must weepe her one.

Beauty it selfe lyes here, in whom alone,
Each part injoy'd the same perfection.
In some the Eyes we praise; in some the Haire;
In her the Lips; in her the Cheeks are faire;
That Nymphs fine Feet, her Hands we beauteous call,
But in this forme we praise no part, but all.
The ages past have many beauties showne,
And I more plenty in our time have knowne;
But in the age to come I looke for none,
Nature despaires, because her pattern's gone.