A Funeral ECLOGUE TO THE PIOUS MEMORY Of the Incomparable Mrs. WHARTON.  
Licenced, Novemb. 21. Roger L'Estrange.  
Printed for joseph Knight, and Francis Saunders, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New Exchange. M. D C. LXXXV.   

A Funeral ECLOGUE, etc.  DAMON. ALEXIS. Dam. 
ALexis, why that Cloud upon your Brow?  
Has lovely Chloris lately broke her Vow,  
And the sad News greeted your Ears but now?  
It must be so; that, sure, must be the cause,  
That from your Eyes this bleeding Deluge draws.  Alex. 
Were it no more than a frail Nymph unkind,  
It rather should divert, than wound my Mind;  
For he that grieves when such their Love estrange,  
As well may grieve, because the Wind will change.  
No, Damon, no; my Sorrows fetch their Spring  
From a more sad, a more important Thing:  
Were all my Life to be one mourning day,  
Or could my heart dissolve in Tears away,  
'Twere yet a Tribute for our Loss too small;—  
Our Loss I call it, for it wounds us all!  Dam. 
Still to your Sighs you call a fresh Supply,  
And still you do conceal, the Reason why.  Alex. 
Oh! Is it possible thou shouldst not know  
The Fatal Chance that has unmanned me so,  
When Sorrow does triumph o'er all the Plain,  
And strikes the coyest Nymph, and dullest Swain?  
These beat their Breasts, and t'other rend their Hair,  
Like Lovers, that are wedded to Despair:  
Not more could be the Cry, if the last Doom,  
The dreadful change of Time and Place were come.  Dam. 
No longer in Suspense then let me stay;  
But tell, that I may mourn as well as they.  Alex. 
Take then, oh Damon! take the worst in Brief!  
The worst! for it admits of no Relief:  
Urania! sweet Urania, whom there's none  
But would in goodness their Superior own;  
In whom were joined each Virtue and each Grace,  
These in her Mind, and t'other in her Face;  
Urania! in whose Conduct we did find  
More than we could expect in Womankind;  
The darling Favourite of the Mighty-nine,  
Whose Wit was still employed on Themes Divine:  
Even She— Oh heavens!—  Dam. 
I fear— but yet, speak on.  Alex. 
Then hear, and burst with Grief— she's dead and gone!  Dam. 
Oh kill Sentence! which I die to know!  
Alexis, prithee say that 'tis not so:  
But see, thy Eyes run o'er; in them I view,  
The fatal News y'ave told me, is too true!  Alex. 
Too true indeed!— when I my Thoughts advance,  
And do reflect on Fortune, Fate, and Chance,  
How many Accidents disturb our Rest,  
How soon we lose the Bravest and the Best,  
How they no more are privileged from Death,  
Than even the vilest Insect that draws Breath;  
Subject to worst of Wrongs, oppressed with Care;  
(Of which Urania thou hast had thy Share!)  
How swift, by heavens inevitable Doom,  
They're snatched from hence, and hurried to the Tomb;  
Leaving the Wicked and the Vain, to waste  
And feed on Blessings they could never taste;  
I hardly can this Impious Thought forbear;—  
The Gods of our Concerns take little care  
Or that (as now) they're something too severe.  Dam. 
Alexis, Do not blame Divine Decree,  
And the strict Laws of strong Necessity;  
For since Eternal Justice cannot Err,  
What that inflicts, we should with Patience bear;  
I need not tell you, all must die ere long.  Alex. 
True, Damon,— but not all dye while they're Young:  
As for the Aged, let 'em pass away,  
And drop into their Tenements of Clay,  
It does not trouble me; for they must go,  
Must feel the sting of Death, and shortly too:  
But then the Youthful, Healthy, Gay and Strong,  
We might with Justice hope, may live as Long:  
And She, you know, was in her Lovely Noon,  
In Nature's Pride, her full Meridian bloom;  
Not half her Glass (Ah brittle Glass!) was run,  
Not half her natural Term of Years was done:  
That, that's the Wound!—  Dam. 
Hold, Stop this Gust of Grief;  
'Tis in your Power to give yourself Relief:  
Think Her (as sure She is) amongst the Blessed,  
And has begun the Sabbath of Her Rest;  
Think that she's freed from all that world of Woe,  
Under whose weight she laboured here Below;  
And you will find more Just Cause to be glad,  
Than thus to be immoderately sad.  
Repine not then Alexis, 'tis not well;—  
Yet, since y'are on this Subject, prithee tell  
By what sad Fate the sweet Urania fell:  Alex. 
A mortal, but a linger Disease  
Upon the Spirits of Her Life did seize;  
Her strength decreased; and every fatal Day  
Still took a part, till All was born away:  
Pale, wan, and meager did her Cheeks appear,  
Though once a Spring of Roses flourished there.  
Thus long She lay, with strong Convulsions torn,  
Which yet, were with a Saintlike Patience born,  
Till Nature ceasing (rather, forced to cease)  
Gave her a painful, but a kind Release.  
Go, Sacred Nymph, ascend the spangled Sphere,  
For it has long wanted thy Lustre there.  
Faithful and Loving to the last She proved,  
And better did deserve to be Beloved:  
Here Colon I could—  Dam.— 
Mention not his Name;  
But let your Subject be his matchless Dame.  Alex. 
So many are Her Virtues, and so vast,  
And crowd upon my Memory so fast,  
'Tis difficult on what Part to begin;  
And 'twill be hard to leave, when once I'm in.  
Her Converse was from all that Dross refined  
That is so visible in Womankind;  
So sweet, so fraught with Heavenly Innocence,  
I dare believe, She could not give Offence.  
By Practice, She did Virtue's Path commend;  
And honoured all that would be Virtue's Friend:  
Perhaps the Vain and Vicious were Her Foes;  
But, who would care for pleasing such as those?  
Her Ardour still to Heavenly Things, did show  
She learned to be an Angel here below.  
Pious, devout, and to Herself austere;  
Hardly a Day but was half-spent in Prayer.  
'Tis heavens Command, that we should pray for those  
That are our bitter, most inveterate Foes;  
Hard Lesson! hard to us, so prone to Err;  
But 'twas a very easy one to Her.  
Her Charity did everywhere extend;  
For to be poor, was to make Her a Friend.  
All this She was:— nor did She less excel  
In the great Poet-art of writing well  
Her charming Strains did please the nicest Ear,  
And even the haughtiest Swams were proud to hear.  
Ah sweet Urania! of all Womankind,  
Where hast thou left one like thyself behind,  
Unless the chaste Mirrana? who, but She?  
Thy virtuous Sister; For in Her we see,  
Thou dear departed Saint, how much wave lost in Thee!  Dam. 
By heavens, Alexis, Thou so well hast shown  
The Virtues of the Nymph, for whom you moon;  
In such sad Numbers told the fatal Cause  
That from your Eyes this bleeding Deluge draws;  
I've caught in too, plunged in the same Extreme,  
Nor blush to weep upon so just a Theme.  Alex. 
Such pious Grief Heaven cannot but forgive,  
That lets the Virtuous in our Memories live:  
But see, if now thou dost some Tears let fall,  
There goes a Sight that will engross 'em all!  
The sweet Urania (Oh untimely doom!)  
By Virgins born to Her eternal home!  
See, with what mournful Pomp the Scene appears,  
The Swains all speechless, and the Nymphs all Tears!  
Instead of flowery Wreaths, with Chaplets crowned,  
Their Temples are with Funeral Cypress bound:  
Although they speak not, yet their Looks impart  
A lasting Anguish, and a bleeding Heart!  
Ha! Damon! See, on the sad Bier displayed,  
Where all the Riches of the Earth is laid!  
You sigh, but Ah! you know, you sigh in vain;  
You'll never more behold Her tread the Plain:  
No more you'll hear that sweet harmonious Voice,  
Which none yet ever heard, but did rejoice:  
For ever ceased are all Her matchless Lays;  
Heaven has closed up the Volume of Her days!  
Oh Grief! that I can think on the chaste Dame,  
Think that She's dead, and not become the same!  Dam. 
Cease, dear Alexis, lest it should be said  
We failed in our last Office to the dead;  
Let's follow then the Mourner's gone before;  
It cannot add to our Affliction more  
To see Her laid in Dust, (once bright and brave)  
And strew sweet Flowers upon her honoured Grave.  
FINIS.