Tixall Poetry/On the Death of the Countesse of Rivers
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:
Which had it formed its sceanes by her, Had all turn'd vertues theater. But malice grew so high, that she And vertue made one tragedy. A beauty, both mature and new; Impregnable, yet pregnant too. So Paradise made Autumn good, Without the fall of bloome or budd. Or, as the sun transplants his face On every planett's looking-glasse, Yet looses not one glorys ray In thos epitomes of day, Untill, by dead of night opprest, Himself he must betake to rest, Leaving thos budding lights full blown, And turn'd to sunnes now every one: So she, though printing every yeare, Coppys of her owne caracter, Left beauty's perfect stamp in all, Yet wasted not th' originall,Till heaven, in love, contriv'd her second birth,And left thos shining epitaphs on earth.