Tixall Poetry.
43
On the Death Of
the Countesse of Rivers.
Heere lyes two miracles in one,
Of all our age, and of her owne.
A vertue, durst mentain her prime,
When vertues self was growne a crime:
A beauty, held her springing flower;
When beauty fell in winter's power.
A vertue, not kept up in cage
Of some lone cell, or hermetage;
As though her soule, lyke ours, durst try
No goodnesse but necessity:
But, to upbrade our masking age,
A vertue on the courtly stage:
Of all our age, and of her owne.
A vertue, durst mentain her prime,
When vertues self was growne a crime:
A beauty, held her springing flower;
When beauty fell in winter's power.
A vertue, not kept up in cage
Of some lone cell, or hermetage;
As though her soule, lyke ours, durst try
No goodnesse but necessity:
But, to upbrade our masking age,
A vertue on the courtly stage:
