An Epitaph On The Marchioness Of Winchester

This rich Marble doth enter

The honoured Wife of Winchester,

A Viscount's daughter, an Earls heir,

Besides what her virtues fair

Added to her noble birth,

More than she could own from Earth.

Summers three times eight save one

She had told, alas too soon,

After so short time of breath,

To house with darkness, and with death.

Yet had the number of her days

The bin as compleat 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

To greet her of a lovely son,

And now with second hope, she goes,

And calls Lucina to her throws;

But whether by mischance or blame

Atropos for Lucina came;

And with remorseles cruelty,

Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:

The Naples Babe before his birth

Had burial, yet not laid in earth,

And the linguist Mothers Womb

Was not long a living Tomb.

So have I seen some tender slip

Saved with care from Winters nip,

The pride of her carnation train,

Pluck's up by som unheeded swain,

Who only thought to crop the flower

New shot up from vernal show;

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

Which the sad morn had let fall

On her hastening funeral.

Gentle Lady may thy grave

Peace and quiet ever have;

After this thy travail sore

Sweet rest cease thee evermore,

That to give the world increase,

Shortened hast thy own lives lease;

Here beside the sorrowing

That thy noble House doth bring,

Here be tears of perfect moan

Weep for thee in Helicon,

And som Flowers, and som Bays,

For thy Hears to strew the ways,

Sent thee from the banks of Came,

Devoted to thy virtuous name;

Whilst thou bright Saint high it's in glory,

Next to her much like to thee in the story,

That fair Syrian Shepherdess,

Who after years of barrenness,

The high favored Joseph bore

To him, that served for her before,

And at her next birth much like thee,

Through pangs fled to felicity,

Far within the bosom bright

of blazing Majesty and Light,

Therewith thee, new welcome Saint,

Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,

With thee there clad in radiant sheen,

No Marchioness, but now a Queen.