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Poems &c. Upon Several Occasions/An Epitaph on the Marchioness of Winchester

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4590884Poems &c. Upon Several Occasions — An Epitaph on the Marchioness of WinchesterJohn Milton

An Epitaph on the Marchioness of Winchester.

This rich Marble doth enterrThe honour'd Wife of Winchester,A Vicounts daughter, an Ealrs heir,Besides what her vertues fairAdded to her noble birth,More then she could own from Earth.Summers three times eight save oneShe had told, alass too soon, After so short time of breath,To house with darkness, and with death.Yet had the number of her daysBin as compleat as was her praise,Nature and fate had had no strifeIn giving limit to her life.Her high birth, and her graces sweet,Quickly found a lover meet;The Virgin quire for her requestThe God that sits at marriage feast;He at their invoking cameBut with a scarce-wel-lighted flame; And in his Garland as he stood,Ye might discern a Cypress bud.Once had the early Matrons runTo greet her of a lovely son,And now with second hope she goes,And calls Lucina to her throws;But whether by mischance or blameAtropos for Lucina came;And with remorsles cruelty,Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:The haples Babe before his birthHad burial, yet not laid in earth, And the languisht Mothers WombWas not long a living Tomb.So have I seen some tender slipSav'd with care from Winters nip,The pride of her carnation train,Pluck't up by som unheedy swain,Who onely thought to crop the flowrNew shot up from vernal showr;But the fair blossom hangs the headSide-ways as on a dying bed,And those Pearls of dew she wears,Prove to be presaging tearsWhich the sad morn had let fallOn her hast'ning funerall.Gentle Lady may thy gravePeace and quiet ever have;After this thy travail soreSweet rest sease thee evermore,That to give the world encrease,Shortned hast thy own lives lease;Here, besides the sorrowingThat thy noble House doth bring,Here be tears of perfect moanWeept 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 vertuous name;Whilst thou bright Saint high sit'st in glory,Next her much like to thee in story,That fair Syrian Shepherdess,Who after yeers of barrenness,The highly favour'd Joseph boreTo him that serv'd for her before,And at her next birth much like thee,Through pangs fled to felicity,Far within the boosom brightof blazing Majesty and Light,There with thee, new welcom Saint,Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,With thee there clad in radiant sheen,No Marchioness, but now a Queen.