AN ELEGY On the Most Accomplish'd VIRGIN Madam ELIZABETH HURNE, Who Departed this Life on the 27th. of July 1683.
THou most Inexorable Tyrant Death,
Who do'st deprive all Humane kind of Breath;
Whose Partial-Dart do's pierce the Hearts of all,
And ne'r regarding who it is does Fall,
Do'st Mow down all Mankind in General:
The Good and Bad are all a Case to Thee,
The Wise-mans Fate and Fool's alike we see;
For all are subject to thy Tyranny.
Let Youth and Beauty both of them Combine;
Nay to these two we'll Wit and Virtue Joyn,
And all in their Superlative Degree,
Yet sha'n't the least Remorce obtain from Thee:
Witness one Fact Thou Perpetrat'st of late,
(Oh! the Vicissitude of Cruel Fate:)
A Fact Atchiev'd on this our British Shore,
Which if the Wings of Fame so far has bore,
It is Deplor'd its Spacious Turf all o'er:
Fair Madam Hurne, (in whom Concenter'd were
The Graces all,) whereby she did appear,
The very Star of this our Hemisphere:
Is Dead, this most Divine and Spotless Maid;
With Grief, I speak't, in Death's Gold Bed is laid:
But tho' she's gone, her Name doth still remain
Pure, Undefil'd, without a Spot or Stain,
And shall Eternal Veneration gain.
But Oh! my Genius faints, when Her I Name;
Divine Apollo, since my Muse is lame,
Transform my Pen into the Tongue of Fame,
Her Meritorious Virtues to Proclaim.
While yet on Earth, she might be said in Heaven,
To which her Thoughts Eternally were given:
And tho' she locally remained here,
Her better Part, her Mind was ever there.
As for her Church, she most Discreetly chose,
That which the Pope and Presbyter oppose,
And in its Bosom took her soft Repose.
Her Dear Indulgent Mother whom she Lov'd,
And could not brook to hear her Disapprov'd;
But to her Loyal Precepts fix'd her Mind,
And ne'r to Factious Principles Enclin'd:
Altho' the Vipers Pester'd her a while,
Vipers far worse than those of Fruitful Nile,
Worse than the Curs'd Dissembling Crocodile:
I mean those men, who by Denomination,
The World call Whigs, but I the Pest o th' Nation:
These all their little Arguments produce,
In hopes they might her Loyalty Seduce;
But as a Rock fix'd by the Ocean side,
(Each towring wave does threaten with her Pride,
As if it meant her Center to divide,)
Do's Laugh to see the sordid Ocean Roar,
And than a Spoonful values it no more:
Even so my Female Champion like a Rock,
Did Unconcern'd sustain the mighty Shock,
And Baffl'd both the Shepherd and the Flock:
Or like St. George who made the Dragon fall,
And with his Sword the hideous Monster Sprall;
So she with Reason did Confound them all,
In fine, kind Heaven and Nature did bestow
All the Rich Blessings that are here below,
Upon her Sacred Head, and meant that she,
Should be the Phoenix of our Britany:
Who Heaven Observing so Divinely clear,
Judg'd her Unworthy any Mortal here;
Therefore Advanc'd her to an higher Sphere:
There her Transcendent Lustre to Display,
And in the upper Rank of Saints Enjoy,
An Happy, Joyful and Eternal Day.
EPITAPH.
MOurn Reader, Mourn, for in this Marble Tomb,
Is Sleeping layn until the day of Doom,
The Sacred Ashes of the Lovely Hurne;
Who chose this Place whilst Living, for her Urne:
But hold kind Reader, to Asswage thy Grief,
And to afford thy Anxious Thoughts Relief;
Know, that altho' her Body here doth lye,
Her Soul by Angels wafted is on High,
And Treads the upper Region of the Sky;
Where there is neither Envy, Grief or Pain,
But all in Bliss Ineffable Eternally Remain.
B.
Printed by N.T. Anno Dom. 1983.