An elegy, and Epitaph for Mistress Abigail Sherard, Daughter to the Right Honourable Philip Baron of Lentrimm, written by one who honoured her Noble Family and Person.  

'tIs ten days since she died, and though I slept,  
Her solemn obsequies even then I kept:  
Although I wore no blacks, colours for sorrow,  
Which graceless sons and widows too oft borrow,  
Who think their fathers lived too long and mourn  
For that, or perhaps fear they should return,  
I cannot (as the wilder Irish use)  
Or screeke or howl, and so their dead abuse;  
I can scarce weep, but I can sigh my part,  
And keep a solemn funeral in my heart:  
Sighs do but case the spleen, and tears the brain,  
As clouds are eased by thunder and by rain.  
I beg no case, nor do I crave relief,  
My soul is happiest when I hug the grief:  
My soul looks upward then to her above,  
And to its proper centre 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 less,  
Or seem to doubt or fear her happiness?  
When I such sweet angelic creatures see,  
I think how happy such fair souls must be,  
When they refined and purified shall rise,  
How glorious then will she be in our eyes?  
As when the corn into the earth we throw,  
Such do our bodies by corruption grow;  
But when they rise, our bodies shall appear  
More glorious than the corn in its full ear:  
Admit us changed, yet we must be tried,  
By flames of fire as gold is purified,  
For my faith teaches me all in this world  
Shall into God's calcining pot be hurled,  
And turned into a Calx, from which shall rise  
Another world, too glorious for our eyes,  
As now they are, for were they not refined,  
Its glory (like the Sun) would strike us blind.  
Till that time, say, which is it thou canst see  
Which truly can deserve a smile from thee?  
Save only this, that death thou needest not fear  
If thou couldst either live or die like her.  
Nay, thou so far from fear of death shouldst 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 hear them hallelujahs sing,  
Praise, Honour, Glory, to th'eternal King.    

Her Epitaph.  

O Stay Viator pass not by!  
But see who here entombed doth lie;  
A fair, a noble virtuous Maid,  
Beloved of all, all debts she paid.  
Courted by many all denied  
Save death who chose her for his Bride;  
Who unto her for jointure gave  
A Kingdom which she's sure to have.  
When e'er he dies, I dare say he  
Who conquers him shall marry thee,  
The heir 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  
Until the glorioas day which he  
Designs his wedding day shall be.  
'Tis true till then in Death's cold arms  
Thou sleep'st, nor canst be waked by charms;  
Until 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 refined, that thou shalt see  
With faith, or hope could promise thee,  
And really shalt enjoy more  
Than they could promise thee before.    
FINIS.