Classic Poem

ELEGIE.

I pree thee leave me, Grief ; if thou wilt stay
Within my panting Brest, shew mee the way
To present death ; or force my eyes to shed
So large a flood of Tears, as may bee spred
Like a transparent Christall Sheet upon
Her Grave, that so no other worthless Stone
Aspire t' adorne her Monument. Oh Shee !
Who was what ev'ry loyall Wife should bee :
Shee in whose living Character was writ
A modest Sweetnesse cloath'd in harmlesse Wit :
Not like those ayrie Dames that only strive
To keep their Faces, not their Fames alive :
That prey upon their Husbands wealth, consume
Whole Signories in Painting and Perfume :
That only make an Idoll of their Will,
And hate all Good, 'cause they account it Ill.
No, shee was pleasing, void of least Offence ;
Was fully Wife, yet full of Innocence.
But oh ! how I undoe my selfe ! I now
Must pull my Lawrell from my wrinkled Brow,
And wreath'd in deathfull Cypresse, sadly call
My Muse to wait upon her Funerall.
Light thy sick Tapers, pensive Muse, and come
To wait her Death, and thine owne Martyrdome ;
For never be invok'd to write (by mee),
When hers is writ, another Elegie .
Now in that silent Tenement of Death,
The Church, go sing in a soft Swan-like breath,
A Requiem to thy memory ; and there
Drowne ev'ry word thou utter'st with a Teare :
But let them be such Tears as may expresse
Not Sorrow, but a joyful Extasis.
And You (dear Sir) in whom there doth survive
So much of her, shee needs must rest alive
In your yet bleeding memory ; You that know
How much each tributarie Grace did owe
To her unmatch'd Perfections ; how that shee
Was Vertues, Beauties just Epitome :
How that her Eyes were Sphears in which did move
The equall orbs of Chastitie and Love :
Her Cheeks two fields of purity, where grew
The Rose and Lilie, mixt i' th' mutuall hue
Of Smiles and Blushes ; how each outward part
Did speak the richer lustre of her Heart,
Her Minds intensive glory. When you think
Justly on this, her Grave no more shall drink
Your frequent Tears ; but fraught with noble Mirth,
You'll soon devest your Soul of all that's Earth
About it ; say, 'twas justice to transferre
From this dull Region such a matchless Starre,
And fix 't i' th' Christall Heav'n ; you'll then confesse
Your constant Love to her appear'd far lesse
In Griefe than Joy ; for sorrow spent for this
Her happinesse, is envie to her blisse,
Not charitie t' her memory ; yet my Verse
Shall hang a lasting Hatchment on her Herse,
My Lawrell deck her Urne, in which does lie
As much as of Mortalitie could die.
You Sir, who then best knew her perfect Life
Ought to rejoyce, not grieve for your dead Wife.