AN ELEGY ON THE TRULY HONOURABLE, AND MOST VIRTUOUS, CHARITABLE, and PIOUS LADY, Countess of Devonshire, Who lately Departed this Life, being a Hundred and odd Years of Age, whose Corpse now Lies in Deserved State in Holbourn.  

ARe all the Poets Dumb? And is there Note  
Whose Tears may fill our empty Helicon?  
So as to fix a Neverdying Verse  
On Pious Devonshire's deserving Hearse.  
Had She been only that which now adays  
Is thought enough for a Great Madams Praise,  
Handsome, Brisk, Airy, Complaisant and Gay,  
Less Zealous at a Sermon than a Play;  
Been Painted or Perfumed with Ambergris,  
And skilled in nought but Modes and Point-Ve●●,  
She would have had the Dablery of the Quill  
Whine, and the Town with vain App●●●●● fill;  
But Her Perfection (like the Sun's bright Rays)  
Dazells their Sight, and Withers their Sto●● Bays  
Whose Prostituted Pen's for sordid Hire,  
Dawbney glorious Vice, and from Apollo's Choir  
Filch Sacred Raptures, which profanely they  
Upon the Shrine of every Wanton Lay.  
We scorn to bathe her Corpse with a forced Tear,  
Nor shall her Train borrow the Blacks they wear.  
Their Vulgar Spice and Gums too trivial be,  
Ours is a Theme of Truth, not Poetry.  
She was a Lady 'bove the Common strain,  
In whom all Virtues did United Reign;  
By Birth derived from the Noblest Springs,  
And Godmother unto the best of Kings.  
Her Dawning Beams so glorious did appear,  
They Darted Love and Wonder every where;  
Yet Her Ripe Years surpassed in inward Grace  
The charming Beauties of Her Youthful Face▪  
Though Streams of Grandeur flowed in her high Blood,  
She before Great, preferred the Name of Good.  
Knowledge that often Puffs a spongy Crest,  
Gave her the Treasure of a lowly Breast.  
Wisdom that once abused turns Vanity,  
Taught Her a holy Meek Simplicity.  
Rubes that Cloth the Brow with Proud disdain,  
Her Charity Improved for endless Gain▪  
How Liberal were Her Alms! which yet she did  
In secret, wishing still they might be hid;  
And seemed in Publick-view, ashamed more  
For to Relieve, than some t'oppress the Poor:  
Man's Good, God's Glory, was her highest pitch,  
True Knowledge made her Wise, that Wisdom Rich;  
To say she's now an Angel is scarce more  
Praise than she had, for she seemed such before.  
Her lie so Strait, it shames the Popish square  
Prescribed in Rules of saint Bridget or Clare;  
Whilst Pilgrimageing here, she stood possessed  
Of Heaven in part, For her Rich furnished Breast  
Was a fair Temple, and her heart a shrine,  
So Purged, that she appeared All Divine;  
Strictly Religious, of firm loyalty,  
In discourse Pleasant, without vanity;  
Kind to her Servants; to Relations Dear,  
To nothing but Herself or sin severe;  
To a good old Age she Lived, and every how'r  
Into her Lamp fresh Oil of Grace did pour;  
At length death Welcome summons having spied,  
she Smiled herself into a Corpse, and Died,  
The Jewel snatched to Bliss, below is set  
In Solemn state th' abandoned Caskinet,  
To show how all things Fade, and what small trust  
We owe this World, Composed of Fleeting dust,  
Where Beauty, Honour, Riches, all we have,  
Are Plundered from us by th' insatiate Grave.  
Ladies! when by her Marble Tomb you pass  
Let its Reflection be your Looking-glass  
Where Youth, may learn to Live and Age to Die,  
Your Rule's above, but your Example nigh.  
This Heav'n-fled Saint hath scored both the way,  
Heaven sets not Earth such Copies every day.  
Her Vertves be your Guide they lie before ye,  
So shall you add more honour to her story,  
And Gain yourselves A Crown her Crown more Glory.   
FINIS.