ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHE- When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, Of death, called life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works and alms, and all thy good endeavour, Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best, John Milton. 5 ΙΟ CXVII 1 AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE, WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER. To these, whom death again did wed, It could not sunder man and wife, In the last knot that love could tie. And though they lie as they were dead, Till this stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into that light, CXVIII 20 Richard Crashaw. ЕРІТАРН. Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust; A vein of gold; a china dish that must Be used in heaven, when God shall feast the just. Robert Wild. CXIX EPITAPH ON COMPANIONS LEFT BEHIND IN THE NORTHERN SEAS. I were unkind unless that I did shed, Before I part, some tears upon our dead: And stops their way with his hewed flesh, when death We that survive, perchance may end our days 15 In some employment meriting no praise; And in a dung-hill rot, when no man names The memory of us, but to our shames. They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends 20 Why drop you so, mine eyes? Nay rather pour My sad departure in a solemn shower. The winter's cold, that lately froze our blood, Now were it so extreme, might do this good, As make these tears bright pearls, which I would lay 25 That in this solitary place, where none' 30 Oh! rest in peace, dear friends, and, let it be 35 Thomas James. CXX 'EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS. The Lady Mary Villiers lies Under this stone: with weeping eyes If any of them, reader, were As dear to thee as this to them, Bewail in their's thine own hard case; Mayst find thy darling in an urn. CXXI Thomas Carew. 5 10 EXEQUY ON HIS WIFE, Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see 5 Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee: thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay, I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But what I practise with mine eyes: By which wet glasses I find out How lazily time creeps about To one that mourns; this, only this, IO 15 20 25 Thou scarce hadst seen so many years 30 Like a fled star, is fall'n and gone, |