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EPITAPH ON THE LADY WHITMORE.
FAIR, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend in one,
Rest in this tomb, rais'd at thy husband's cost,
Here sadly summing what he had and lost.
Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first, and offer at her sacred shrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer life;
And wish your vows, like hers, may be return'd,
So lov'd when living, and when dead so mourn’d.
EPITAPH ON SIR PALMES FAIRBONE'S TOMB
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir Palmes Fairbone,
Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command, he was mortally wounded by a shot from the Moors, then besieging the town, in the forty-sixth year of his age. October 24, 1680.
Ye sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturb’d by wars, in quiet sleep:
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,
Fairbone's undaunted soul did undergo,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead these walls he will defend :
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deserv'd applause, 10
Against the Moors his well flesh'd sword he draws;
The same the courage, and the same the cause.
His youth and age, his life and death, combine,
As in some great and regular design,
All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright,
Like rising flames expanding in their height;
The martyr's glory crown'd the soldier's fight.
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was e'er reveng'd so well ; 20
Which his pleas’d eyes beheld before their close
Follow'd by thousand victims of his foes.
To his lamented loss for time to come
His pious widow consecrates this tomb.
UNDER MR. MILTON'S PICTURE, BEFORE
HIS PARADISE LOST.
THREE poets in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpass'd;
The next, in majesty; in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, she join'd the former two.
MONUMENT OF A FAIR MAIDEN LADY,
WHO DIED AT BATH, AND IS THERE INTERRED. *
BELOW this marble monument is laid
All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
Preserve, O sacred tomb, thy trust consign'd,
The mould was made on purpose for the mind:
And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
One atom could be mix’d of other clay.
Such were the features of her heavenly face,
Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious
So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the soul;
Which her own inward symmetry reveald;
And like a picture shone, in glass anneald.
Or like the sun eclips’d, with shaded light:
Too piercing, else, to be sustain’d by sight.
* This lady is interred in the Abbey-church. The epitaph is on a white marble stone fixed in the wall, together with this inscription: ‘Here lies the body of Mary, third daughter of Richard Frampton, of Moreton in Dorsetshire, Esq.; and of Jane his wife, sole daughter of Sir Francis Coffington, of Founthill in Wilts, who was born January 1, 1676, and died after seven weeks illness on the 6th of September, 1698.
“This monument was erected by Catharine Frampton, her second sister and executrix, in testimony of her grief, affection, and gratitude.' D.
Each thought was visible that rolld within :
As through a crystal case the figur'd hours are
And heaven did this transparent veil provide,
Because she had no guilty thought to hide.
All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies:
For marriage, though it sullies not, it dyes.
High though her wit, yet humble was her mind;
As if she could not, or she would not find
How much her worth transcended all her kind.
Yet she had learn'd so much of heaven below,
That when arriv'd, she scarce had more to know:
But only to refresh the former hint;
And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, as she had no time to spare
For human thoughts, but was confin’d to prayer.
Yet in such charities she pass'd the day,
'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray.
A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which passion could but curl, not discompose.
A female softness, with a manly mind:
A daughter duteous, and a sister kind:
In sickness patient, and in death resign'd.
EPITAPH ON MRS. MARGARET PATSON,
OF BURNINGHAM IN NORFOLK.
So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet,
So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit,
Require at least an age in one to meet.
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
Heaven's image was in her so well exprest,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravish'd from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.
ON THE MONUMENT OF THE MARQUIS
He who in impious times undaunted stood,
And midst rebellion durst be just and good :
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirm’d the cause for which he fought before,
Rests here, rewarded by a heavenly prince;
For what his earthly could not recompense.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear:
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age’s faith and loyalty,