ON THE UNTIMELY AND MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF Mrs Anne Gray, the Daughter of the Learnedly accomplished Doctor Nicholas Gray of Tunbridge in Kent, Who died of the Small Pox.  
AN elegy.  
SCarce have I dried my Cheeks, but Griefs invite  
Again my Eyes to weep, my Hand to write,  
Which still return with greater force, being more  
In weight and number than they were before.  
Mechanic Griefs are eloquent, their sound  
Beats through the streets, and in that spacious Round  
Salutes each stranger's ear: Nor can so high  
And wide a ruin in one Family  
Contracted keep; but seeking farther bounds,  
Fills every breast with its afflicting sounds.  
Youth met with Beauty weeps; than who forbears  
To grief's Exchequer to bring in his tears?  
Haet that such tributes doth not now return,  
Knows neither virtue, nor for whom we mourn,  
SHE, whose unequalled, and whose rich desert  
Did take possession in each knowing heart;  
Whose life was such, it may be well denied,  
That she did ever ill, but that she died.  
SHE, like another Nature, but whose Name  
Gave life to Beauty, and a voice to Fame;  
SHE, whose pure worth was such, whom gone, that even  
Heaven would lament with many a tear, if Heaven  
Had not assumed her, who in all she did,  
Both Grace in it and Innocence were hid,  
Is hence ascended, while our Griefs infer  
Their moist Complaints, and envy heaven, not she  
Death, who did boast his high Prerogative,  
And hourly Conquests over all alive,  
Did here begin to startle, and did seem  
To fear her Beauties would now conquer him:  
Therefore a danger to prevent so nigh,  
Drew forth at once all his Artillery,  
And so direct the Battery was laid,  
So full the Charge, so fast the Case-shot played,  
That the poor Body fell upon the place,  
A thousand wounds being printed on her face:  
Yet spite of Death, and Fate, we must imply,  
That she herself was well content to die;  
For in this sad and tedious vale of tears,  
Ere she had hardly numbered eighteen years,  
She had done all her business, and made even  
With Earth, and drawn up her accounts for Heaven.  
Rich in her sex's value, good men's praise,  
And full of all could be desired, but days;  
Where after her we sigh our souls, the while  
She counts our tears, and with a pitying smile  
Beholds our following Love; and now no Drums,  
Nor voice of Cannons, nor of Trumpets comes  
To vex her quiet ear; nor any noise  
Dares once approach to interrupt her joys;  
But Health and Strength do court her, and the treasure  
Of endless light, and unrepented pleasure,  
And all the Blessings which fair Peace doth bring  
Sent for so oft by my late Lord the King  

Her Epitaph.  
WOuldst thou know who lies here, under  
This cold Marble? read, and wonder:  
For body, beauty, feature, sense,  
This was the Maid of Excellence,  
Whose early soul soon understood  
And practised all that men call Good:  
And wondering threescore years should stay  
For what so soon she bore away,  
She sudden unto Heaven did fly,  
Ashamed of dull Mortality.   
SAMUEL HOLLAND.