AN ELEGY On the Famous and Renowned LADY, for Eloquence and Wit, Madam MARY CARLTON, Otherwise styled, The Germane Princess.  

OH Dire Misfortune! 'twas a cruel Fate  
Should make her wit the object of its hate.  
Death surely hath no mercy in his sting,  
To noose a Princess in a Hempen String.  
Had he or manners, or a sharpened Dart,  
He had e'er now surprised her Martial heart;  
And not admitted her in all the throng  
Of Beauties, to ride Conqueress so long:  
But he in policy observed her will,  
Spared her to send more Grists unto his Mill;  
For she, whose Beauty lay within her pate,  
Slew more by Love, than Death could slay by hate.  
But yet we see in vain it is to groan,  
The Gallows, and the Grave, refuseth none.  
Nor let the Reader now exalt his horn,  
None know their Doom so soon as they are born.  
And who is he that dares to have the skill  
To judge who next shall ride up Holborn-Hill?  
Nor is it much material; Fate, we know,  
More ways than one unto the Grave can show;  
Some by Beheading, some by a Surprise;  
Some by those Darts shot from their Lady's Eyes:  
Nor has the Gallow-Tree been ill adorned,  
Lords, Knights and Gentlemen, have there been scorned:  
'Tis not the manner of their Deaths that die,  
That make them odious, but their Obloquy.  
Detracting from good breeding, looks more black  
Than many faults, in them good breeding lack.  
The world miscalled her Cheat; when as her strife  
Was to act Nature's part, preserve her life:  
Or if it was her Genius to approve  
O'th' Female Craft, its Sentiments of Love.  
Who can ill language on her Craft bestow,  
In seeking to have two strings to her Bow?  
Thus Fate with Ignominy doth reward  
Those daring Souls, that seldom have regard  
To the success of what they undertake,  
And turns a Golden Wedge into a Stake  
'Twas Canterbury, that thrice-happy Earth,  
Grew proud, because it chanced to give her birth.  
Her Father, though but mean by Pedigree,  
Lived well beloved in that most spacious See;  
And she grown up to years, acquiring man,  
Improved, till she was Metropolitan:  
Yet her cross stars too suddenly have hurled  
Her parts from hence, into another World.    

HER EPITAPH.  

HEre lieth one was hurried hence,  
To make the World a recompense  
For Actions wrought by Wit and Lust,  
Whose Closet now is in the Dust.  
Then let her sleep, for she has Wit  
Will give Disturbers Hit for Hit.   
FINIS.   

LONDON: Printed for Samuel Speed, 1673.