AN ELEGIE Upon the Death of my pretty Infant-Cousin, Mris. JANE GABRY, VVho died within the Month, not without some suspicion of being Overlaid by her Nurses.
SWeet Babe, why didst thou leave this world so soon,
Not seen by thy first Parents, Sun, nor Moon?
[...]adst onely some short Intervals of light,
[...]o lead thee from one, to another Night;
[...]ill thou shouldst view an everlasting Sun,
Which ne'r knew shade, because it ne'r begun.
Pretty Apostate! why no longer stay?
But newly Christian, and straight fall away?
Pardon, dear Saint, 'twas not for want of Grace;
Tis that transports us to a better place.
Never was Babe baptiz'd with kinder Strife:
[...]gion helps to save the soul, not life:
[...] his thred once spun, bears an unerring date,
Plot to be broke, or lengthned, but by Fate.
O[?] Heav'ns! survive the Font but one poor day?
Twas a short Eve to a long Holy-day.
Was thy too generous heart inspir'd to die,
To quit thy Sureties from their costly Tye?
Mad'st haste to heav'n, new washt from Adams guilt,
For fear that holy water might be spilt.
We shall not load thy Nurses with complaints,
Whose[?] very sin might serve t' increase the Saints.
[...]here may be loss, not guilt, without the Will;
[...]ometimes the Innocent the Innocent kill.
Nor shall we from thy Inches square thy Bliss,
As Lovers do theirs, by a short-liv'd kiss.
Plants wither here, set in a barren place;
Heav'n is a rich Soyl, ripens fruit apace.
A new-born Bud, a tender Blossom here,
Is in a moment ripe and perfect there.
Now thou art full of days: How can there bee
Childhood, or Non-age, in Eternity?
Why should we then be Mourners to excess,
As if we griev'd at thy stoln Happiness?
Our showrs of tears can onely shew us kinde;
More proper for poor Ʋs, who stay behinde
In a bad World, full of perplexing Care;
VVhose Charity is colder then its Air.
Rather convert our Sorrows into Joy,
To build new hopes for a more lasting Boy.
The oddes will not be great, but three to one;
Two Girles dead before.
One Grain will turn the Scale, when three are gone.
And now, sweet Babe, allow my gentle Verse
To drop, not Tears, but Wishes on thy Herse:
May thy dear Parents and Relations be
As quiet as thy Grave, as blest as Thee.
LONDON: Printed Anno Domini 1672.