Classic Poem

I now beleeve that Heaven once shall shrink
Up like a shrivell'd Scrole, and what we think,
Spread like a larger Curtain, doth involve
The Worlds Great Fabrick, shall a length dissolve
Into a sparing Handfull, and to be
Only a Shrowd for its Mortality:
For her Disease Blest Soul, was but the same
Which alwaies raigneth in that upper Frame;
And hearing of her Fate, we boldly dare
Conclude that Stars, Sphears thicker Portions, are
Only some Angry Pimples which foretell
That which at length must fall, now is not well.
But why think we on Heav'n, when she is gone,
Almost as rich and fair a Mansion?
One who was good so young, that we from her
Against Philosophy may well infer
That Vertues are from Nature; that the Mind
Like the first Paradise may unrefind
Boast Native Glories, and to Art not ow
That ought by Her it doth receive and show.
I may not call her Woman, for she ne'r
Study'd the Glass and Pencill, could not swear
Faith to the Lover, and when he was gone
The same unto the next, and yet keep none;
She could not draw ill Vapours like the Sun,
And drop them down upon some yonger One.
Alas her Mind was plac'd above these foul
Corruptions, still as high as now her Soul:
Nor had she any thought that e'r did fear
The open test of the Austerest Ear:
For all of them were such as wretches we
May wish, not hope, for this felicity;
That when we think on Heaven we may find
Thoughts, like the worst of hers, burn in our Mind.
Let not the Ancient glory that they found
The Chain of Vertues, how they all were bound,
How met in one; We happier far did see
What they did either dream or Prophesie:
For since that She is gone, where can we find
A pair of Vertues met in all Mankind?
Some one perhaps is Chaste, Another Just,
A Third is valiant, but we may not trust
To see them throng'd again, but still alone
As in a Ring One Spark, one pretious Stone.
I know some little Beauty, and one grain
Of any Vertue doth to Others gain
The Name of Saint or Goddess: but the grace
Of every Limb in her, bright as the Face,
Presenting Chaster Beauties, did conspire
Only to stile her Woman: 'twas the fire
Of a religious Mind that made her soar
So high above the Sex, Her faith was more
Then others stumbling blindness; only here
She was Immodest, only bold to fear,
And thence adore: for She I must Confess
'Mongst all her Vertues had this one excess.
Forgive, thou all of goodness, if that I
By praising blemish, too much Majesty
Injures it self: where Art cannot express,
It veyls and leaves the rest unto a Guess.
So where weak Imitation failes, enshrowd
The awfull Deity in an envious Cloud;
Hadst thou not been so Good, so Vertuous,
Heaven had never been so Covetous;
Each parcell of thee must away, and we
Not have a Child left to resemble thee;
Nothing to shew thou wert, but what alone
Adds to our Grief, thy Ashes, or thy Stone:
And all our glory only can boast thus.
That we had one made Heaven Envy us;
I now begin to doubt whether it were
A true disease or no; We well may fear
We did mistake: The Gods whom they'l bercave
Do blindfold first, then plausibly deceive:
The Error's now found out, we are beguil'd,
Thou wert Enammel'd rather than Defil'd.