As the new foundress of your sex could boast,
Ere she by sin her first perfection lost;
May destiny, just to your merits, twine
All your smooth fortunes in a silken line;
And that you may at Heaven late arrive,
May it to you its largest bottom give;
May Heaven with still repeated favours bless,
Till it its power below its will confess;
Till wishes can no more exalt your fate,
Nor poets fancy you more fortunate.
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. KATHARINE KINGSCOURT,
A CHILD OF EXCELLENT PARTS AND PIETY.
SHE did, she did—I saw her mount the sky,
And with new whiteness paint the galaxy.
Heaven her methought with all its eyes did view,
And yet acknowledged all its eyes too few.
Methought I saw in crowds blessed spirits meet,
And with loud welcomes her arrival greet,
Which, could they grieve, had gone with grief away,
To see a soul more white, more pure than they.
Earth was unworthy such a prize as this,
Only a while Heaven let us share the bliss;
In vain her stay with fruitless tears we'd woo,
In vain we'd court, when that our rival grew.
Thanks, ye kind powers! who did so long dispense
(Since you so wished her) with her absence thence:
We now resign, to you alone we grant
The sweet monopoly of such a saint;
So pure a saint, I scarce dare call her so,
For fear to wrong her with a name too low;
Such a seraphic brightness in her shined,
I hardly can believe her womankind.
