An elegie, and epitaph for Mistris Abigail Sherard, daughter to the Right Honourable Philip Baron of Lentrimm written by one who honoured her noble family and person. 1648 Approx. 4 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A84138 Wing E342 Thomason 669.f.12[92] ESTC R210988 99869732 99869732 162883

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A84138) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 162883) Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 246:669f12[92]) An elegie, and epitaph for Mistris Abigail Sherard, daughter to the Right Honourable Philip Baron of Lentrimm written by one who honoured her noble family and person. 1 sheet ([1] p.) s.n., [London : 1648] Imprint from Wing. Verse in two columns, the first column being the elegy ("Tis ten dayes since she dy'd, and though I slept,"); the second being 'Her Epitaph.' Annotations on Thomason copy: [first column, line 37, word 5 ] 'which' has been crossed out and replaced with "what"; [second column, line 13, word 2] 'unto' has been crossed out; [second column, line 14, word 2] 'pain' has been crossed out and replaced with "[illegible]"; [second column, line 24, word 1] 'With' has been crossed out and replaced with "what"; "[Long illegible passage in verse]". Reproduction of the original in the British Library.

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 eng Sherard, Abigail, d. 1648 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. Elegiac poetry, English. 2007-09 Assigned for keying and markup 2007-09 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2007-10 Sampled and proofread 2007-10 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
An Elegie, and Epitaph for Miſtris Abigail Sherard, Daughter to the Right Honourable Philip Baron of Lentrimm, written by one who honoured her Noble Family and Perſon. TIs ten dayes ſince ſhe dy'd, and though I ſlept, Her ſolemne obſequies even then I kept: Although I wore no blacks, colours for ſorrow, Which graceleſſe ſons and widows too oft borrow, Who think their fathers liv'd too long and mourn For that, or perhaps fear they ſhould return, I cannot (as the wilder Iriſh uſe) Or ſcreeke or houle, and ſo their dead abuſe; I can ſcarce weep, but I can ſigh my part, And keepe a ſolemne Funerall in my heart: Sighs do but caſe the ſpleen, and teares the brain, As clouds are eas'd by thunder and by raine. I beg no caſe, nor do I crave reliefe, My ſoule is happyeſt when I hug the griefe: My ſoul looks upward then to her above, And to its proper center ſeems to move, Admit her fair, chaſte, noble, young, And fit for marriage, ſhould I therefore wrong My faith and hope? nay, for theſe love her leſſe, Or ſeem to doubt or feare her happineſſe? When I ſuch ſweet angelick creatures ſee, I think how happy ſuch fair ſouls muſt be, When they refin'd and purifi'd ſhall riſe, How glorious then will ſhee be in our eyes? As when the corne into the earth we throw, Such do our bodies by corruption grow; But when they riſe, our bodies ſhall appear More glorious then the corn in its full eare: Admit us changed, yet we muſt be try'd, By flames of fire as gold is purifi'd, For my faith teaches me all in this world Shall into Gods calcining pot be hurl'd, And turn'd into a Calx, from which ſhall riſe Another world, too glorious for our eyes, As now they are, for were they not refin'd, Its glory (like the Sun) would ſtrike us blinde. Till that time, ſay, which is it thou can'ſt ſee Which truly can deſerve a ſmile from thee? Save onely this, that death thou need'ſt not feare If thou could'ſt either live or dye like her. Nay, thou ſo far from feare of death ſhould'ſt be Thy eyes (like Stephens) would thy Redeemer ſee Sitting upon his Throne of glory, and The ſacred Legions round about him ſtand; Nay, thou ſhalt heare them Halelujahs ſing, Praiſe, Honour, Glory, to th'eternall King.
Her Epitaph. O Stay Viator paſſe not by! But ſee who here entomb'd doth lye; A fair, a noble vertuous Maid, Belov'd of all, all debts ſhe pay'd. Courted by many all deny'd Save death who choſe her for his Bride; Who unto her for Joynture gave A Kingdom which ſhee's ſure to have. When ere he dyes, I dare ſay he Who conquers him ſhall marry thee, The Heire of all this earth, nay heaven, He unto whom all power is given: He unto whom we know was thy firſt love In pain he keeps thy ſoul above Untill the glorioas day which he Deſignes his wedding day ſhall be. 'Tis true till then in Death's cold arms Thou ſleep'ſt, nor can'ſt be wak't by charms; Untill the ſhrill trump of thy Lord Shall waken thee, as once his word Made Lazarus, and Tabitha to riſe. Then thou ſhalt ſee him with thoſe eyes But ſo refin'd, that thou ſhalt ſee With faith, or hope could promiſe thee, And really ſhalt enjoy more Then they could promiſe thee before.
FINIS.