THE ELEGIE.
FArewel Great Conyers Heir, thou brightest Pearl
Nature 'ere polisht to enrich an Earl,
An Earl of the first Magnitude, yet He
So high, concludes he was too low for Thee:
His goodness, greater then his Name, before
Render'd his Titles too inferiour;
He kindly fell degraded by his Love,
That humbled this great Turtle to his Dove:
But what his goodness wrought before, his Fate
Sad Earl! submits him still beneath thy State.
Death, that grand Tyrant over Mortal things,
Who disthrones Emperors, Protectors, Kings,
Has inthron'd Thee; now rais'd as far above
Thy Earl, as he transcends all Earles in Love.
Hard lot! He loves still, rather more then less;
Must keep his Love, and loose his happiness!
Whose sorrow knows no ground of joy but this,
No power, below Heaven, could divide your blisse.
[Page 2] He's not alone, their death, when great Stars fall,
Though not disease, proves Epidemical.
Fair Saint, how many lives lament thy death?
Whose blood was warm'd by thine, not their own breath,
Forgive astonishment if it cannot mourn,
Our Hearts are dead and buried in thy urn:
Pardon our eyes if dry, thei're sunk, and weep
Back to our hearts, our sorrows are so deep!
But let's with leave of Providence inquire
Why this Fair Rose must in its June expire?
Was it because she took no pleasure here
In Husband, Mother, Babes? Three things so dear:
I'me sure they all lov'd her, and now improve
Their grief by the dimensions of their Love:
Shee dy'd, but once (O that vast once!) but they
Each hour sad tributes to her Mem'ry pay.
Sometimes our vigorous phansies (though in vain)
Possest, act high, and fetch her back again
With an Herculean Love; Now Hopes and Fears
Struggle, and Joy smiles in a Bath of Tears:
But O the emptiness of that Creation
Takes Birth and form from fond imagination!
One minute makes her live, another dye,
Thus we her death, our own griefs multiply:
O then 'twas not for want of Love she dy'd!
That might have been sooner then life supply'd:
Her death knew no such disharmonious strife,
But answer'd the sweet Musick of her life:
Her last sigh (loves last Eccho) though but faint,
Breathd out her kind soul in an amorous pant:
Her Lord and Shee, never was kinder Pair,
One Soul mov'd both, which fed on Love, not Air;
[Page 3] How often did this sweet expression start
From the full satisfaction of her Heart;
I would not change (quoth she) good Shrewsbury's Wife
For Empress; better pleas'd with him then life!
Nor was her venture small, when providence led
This best of Ladies to her Nuptial Bed;
She was her Fathers Heir, and must disclaim
Not onely his Estate, but House, and Name:
That Dower must vast and comprehensive be,
Whose Total is the whole Posterity!
When Conyers must be lost, except the Font
Christen the Name,
A Daughte [...]
and stamp new life upon't:Here exspir'd not the breath of one, but all,
A Families life dead in one funeral!
Were I to write her Epitaph it should be,
Here lyes interr'd a Genealogie!
Posterity, Ancestors, all dead but Name,
And that to live upon the breath of Fame.
Live pretty Lady Conyers, live, to save
Talbot from guilt, and Conyers from the grave!
And yet, good soul! this universal sale
Still seem'd to her too cheap to countervail
His merit, and her Love; t'improve her land,
Gives him her life, her lif's at his command:
Good Saint! she might have sav'd this liberal cost,
Had she but reckon'd what he reckon'd most;
Had she cast in the treasure of her mind,
Sh' had rais'd her sum, had been both rich and kind,
That was the first unkindness she ere gave,
Her dearest Lord, to lead him to her Grave!
This Loyalty to her Lord, could not impair
Her duty, equal to her Mothers care;
[Page 4] In all just things obedient to her will,
As if the Countess had been Conyers still:
And might have well appear'd to vulgar sence
Virgin for aspect, duty, Innocence.
No Child to Parent more just homage paid,
Onely she dyed, and there first disobey'd:
That was against her Mothers will, you'l say,
But 'twas Heav'ns Mandate, and she must obey:
Thus Heaven at once infrings, and forgives
All Obligations made to Relatives!
Madam you're Wise, then make no vain complaints,
Can you act higher, then furnish Heaven with Saints?
When you observ'd Heaven shining in her face,
Did you not then assign her to that place?
So good! what then? O let her live, you cry!
So good! she's ripe for Heaven, O let her dye!
Where is our intellect, our sense, our eyes?
When we think vertue fit to mortalize?
But must the Genial Bed, O Juno! be
Not her Babes, but her Souls delivery?
Ingratitude of Nature! Must a Tomb
Prove the sad Merit of a Fruitful Womb?
What wilt thou do sweet Babe to purge thy Fate,
Who bought'st this cheap World at so dear a rate?
Poor harmless Viper! thou mad'st I dare say,
Prophetick lamentations the first day.
Those very bowels which thy Birth had rent
Still pitty'd thee, thou was't so innocent:
Be sure to pay thy Father, when thou know'st
How much thy Mother for thy Birth thou ow'st;
Thou ow'st as much duty, as life; for she
Lost her own life to give a life to thee.
[Page 5] Yet with Heav'ns leave (discreet at last) she stays
(In labour now with death, not thee) some dayes;
'Twas for thy sake that not till then she dy'd,
To save thee from the guilt of Matricide!
Sweet Babe! may Heaven prolong thy precious life,
Thou pledge of the best Mother and best Wife!
France that spruce Nation, of the Purest Aire,
Admir'd this Lady both for Wise, and Fair;
She spoke their Language with its natural tone,
They thought (but much deceiv'd) she was their own:
Theirs, all except their vice; for when she came
Back to her Native Soyl, she was the same,
The same White Conyers still: The change of place
Alters no Soul, without a change of grace!
Shee brought their decent modes and us'd them here,
Only she left the Nations vanity there.
Her voice was sweet without affected Art
Fit for the Quire, where now she bears a part.
As for her Charity consult the Poor,
They say she kept a Table at her door;
Their thronging to her grave kind witness bears,
Strowing the sad way not with flowers, but tears:
The Poor lament, and tell you, how they far'd,
Heav'n speaks her Charity best by her reward:
This Diamond in her Crown is not the least,
To meet Rich Saints, whom Poor she us'd to feast.
Is this that Charity which in stead of Poor,
Sits now her self without an Alms at door?
That Charity, which with so much noise and din
The Faith o'th age hath almost made a sin?
This was that Charity shee did so prise,
Her Grace within, without her Exercise!
[Page 6] You Ladies that exhaust your wealth and time
In dear bought toyes to make a costly crime,
Lay up some gold for Heaven; what you spend here,
If ill dispenc'd, will not be reckon'd there.
But I digress, who now no Satyre write,
But Elegie; Dead Folks use not to bite!
Witness good Heav'n, I would not wish to find
Great Shrewsbury's wealth, without his Ladies mind!
So pious, so devout! me thinks I see
The posture of her bended Heart and Knee,
Both alike flexible: believe me, when
She dealt with Heaven, she was no Countess then!
Allowing Natural Acts, and sober care
Of decencies, her whole life was one prayer.
See, see, her moyst Eyes, whilst with Heav'n she pleads,
Drop Tears, Religious Pearls, in stead of beads!
Her pious life was her deaths best presage,
Whose whole tract was a Christian Pilgrimage;
A Pilgrimage to that Jerusalem, where
Dwell, onely Saints, no Turk inhabits there.
Death had not much to do in th' extream hour,
So weakned were the sinews of his power:
Her cheerfulness at last all fear beguiles,
Taking her leave, like a kind friend with smiles.
But what Crowns all (in other great ones rare)
Shee knew no pride either of good or fair:
Her goodness ('tis a sweet absurdity)
Rais'd her to Heav'n by its humility;
That Ladder on which good Father Jacob went
To Heav'n; humility the souls ascent!
When Eyes fall, Hearts may rise: Humility thus
Like showers the clouds, draws down our Heaven to us!
[Page 7] Great Souls may act high, when their bodies faint:
And Heaven stoops down to meet an humble Saint!
Her very Maids proud of their Mistris name,
Learnt to be humble at the price of shame,
Were forc't to blush, and guilty skarlet be
By meer reflexions of her modesty;
I'me sure she made them humble, when she dyed,
Her death was the grand Penance of their pride.
This rich Pearl lost, makes the sad owners poor,
All turns to grief now what was joy before:
Her Beauty, Wisedom, Grace, serve all t'express
Her great bliss, and our great unhappiness!
Could not all this our Countess keep alive?
No; she must dye, and all this must survive:
When such ripe fruit in gracious Souls you see,
It springs from seeds of Immortality!
Farewel blest Saint, none ever riper dy'd,
Thou liv'dst till thou wa'st almost glorifi'd;
So Angelical was thy Soul! If Providence
Had pleas'd, thou might'st have been translated hence
Without th'exspiring of thy perfum'd breath;
Grace call'd for Heaven, humility for Death!
Thy Name, though Glorious, here was at a loss;
The Christians Crown is brighter then his Cross!
He that would write thy praises, first should go
To Heaven, and there their just dimensions know.
FINIS.