AN ELEGY, Upon the Death of the most Incomparable, Mrs. KATHERINE PHILIPS, The Glory of Her SEX.  

BUT stay refined Soul! oh! Why so fast?  
Stop her you Clouds; the world's in no such haste  
To be undone: 'Tis hardly break of day,  
And will She set so soon; so soon away?  
You bright Intelligences, doth she stay  
To hear your rolling Music by the Way  
Set to her charming numbers; Wherein she  
Distilled the Quintessence of Poesy?  
Or doth she bait at the Crystalline Sky?  
We'll on the Wings of adoration fly  
And follow her, and leave this gloomy shade  
Which doth our sad Horizon thus invade;  
Now She hath snatched with her all virtue's light,  
And left the World invol'vd in endless Night.  
She, who in Tragic buskins dressed the Stage,  
Taught Honour, Love, and Friendship to this Age;  
Is gone to act her Part in bright attire,  
With Scenes of Glory, in th' Angelique Quire.  
She Taught the World the sweet and peaceful Arts  
Of blending Souls, and of compounding hearts;  
Without th'ingredients of reserved intents,  
Hypocritics, and windy compliments.  
She taught a Way, and that a glorious one,  
Not how to gain, but be above a Throne:  
Self-conquest is more glory, than to ride  
In Roman Triumphs, with Aemilian Pride.  
Her inward Pomp, through her Fleshy shroud  
Did like the Sun oft glitter through a Cloud.  
Her Virtues were in Conversation drawn,  
And show like Arras, through transparent Laun.  
But ah! her Friend, that in her Bosom came,  
Lay wrapped in Spices, in a purer Flame  
Than that the Phoenix dies in. Now she's gone!  
Here, Plato! here's thy wished for Vision!  
When she put off her Clay, thou mightst have seen  
Virtue undressed, just like a Naked Queen.  
Thou wouldst not then contemplate any more  
Thy Dusky vain Idea, nor wouldst poor  
On such fictitious Bliss; but here shouldst ply  
The sum of thy Divine Philosophy.  
But is she gone, said I? It cannot be;  
She who espoused all Immortality:  
But read her Lines, you'd think that such a Soul  
Could her Imperious Destiny control:  
That so Sublime, so brave a Mind, could soon  
Vault o'er that Fate, that rules below the Moon.  
Ah! 'tmust not be! Death vizards Humane Glory,  
And writes a period to the finest Story.  
This Prodigy of Nature now is gone,  
And left Us wrapped in Admiration  
That she could die; as we be before to see  
That such Perfection in her Sex could be.  
As for her Name, let that b' enshrined above  
In some Bright Temple, of Celestial Love;  
Whither our Winged Thoughts may often stray,  
As Soaring Pilgrims Adoration pay.  
And whilst her Sparkling Soul is Orbed in Light,  
And reads her old Ideas in more bright  
And fair Impressions, in th' Aetherial Mind,  
Than those brief Copies that she left behind:  
We will commit her ever Sacred Dust  
Not to the Marble's, but Apollo's Trust.  
And Poets Ghosts shall from Elysium come,  
To hear Bright Angels warble in her Tomb  
Her highborn Songs; which hence shall Envy fan,  
And Soaring Fame shall be her Guardian.  
Instead of Tapers, where shall ever burn  
Th'inflamed Hearts of Lovers in her Urn.  
And since our short-winged Prayers are come too late,  
And she must bow to th' Tyranny of Fate;  
Her Noble Thoughts, that fixed on bravest Themes,  
Shall vapour forth in Sublimated Streams  
Of Honour; Which Heroic Breasts shall draw,  
Whose Swords and Pens must give the World a Law.  
Her Sacred Dust, calcined by Time, shall be  
The Richest Filings of high Poesy.  
And from her Brain, and Muses Tears, shall spring,  
Posies for each chaste Lover's Wedding Ring.  
Her all dispersed, at last shall meet in one,  
And shine a Glorious Constellation.   By J. C.  

Her EPITAPH.  

A Sparkling Angel was of late  
Toying with the Bands of Fate;  
He left the Choir, and came below,  
And strove to walk Incognito.  
To write, and live, like us he tried;  
But when he saw that he was spied,  
He made the World believe he died;  
And hid himself behind this Tomb,  
Which is Death's shady Dining-Room.    

Another.  

ALL that the World could boast of, here is found  
Under this Tomb, so Mines run under Ground;  
Love, Honour, Friendship, and Sublimest Wit,  
Are here leapt off the Stage into the Pit.  
Fine Shows and Scenes they are, but vanish all  
When, from Dark Clouds, Fate lets a Curtain fall.  
The Play is ended, and the Musique's done,  
The Curtain's here let fall, and she is gone.  
Let's often think of Death, which thus we see  
Can close up Nature's rarest Harmony:  
Let's strive the Great spectator most to please,  
And Angels than will give Us Plaudite's.