AN ELEGY Upon that never to be forgotten Matron, Old Madam Gwinn, Who was unfortunately Drowned in her own Fishpond, on the 29th of July 1679.  

Mourner's prepare, let doleful Echoes sound;  
To rouse the ghost that trace the silent round  
And Lethe quaff, in their eternal Bowls,  
Once more T'incorporate their departed Souls.  
Let all Repair, and as Attendants wait;  
On this untimely Character of Fate.  
Yet let Elysium Fields be Guarded, sure  
Great Pluto there, those Fountains must secure.  
That send such Rivers forth, which once being tain,  
They yield a power to reassume again  
A mortal Shape, and once more view the Skies,  
If Fame be true, at least Poettick Lies  
Will Pardons meet, whilst Rome can Oaths translate,  
We have the power to add, Illusterate.  
Or else diminish as occasions found,  
For naked Truth received a papal Wound:  
And therefore dares not venture on the Stage,  
Lest she become the Monster of the Age.  
But yet, suppose there is such Streams, then know,  
That our Advice will profit much below.  
Look too't than Rodamanthus, for now she,  
Who has Exhausted France and Normandy;  
Descends thy Shades, and like Bohemoth will,  
At one sound Draught, whole Floods of Lethe swill.  
So that the rest may hope to taste in vain,  
And yet ne'er find a Cordial for their Pain.  
But since she's gone, our Tiplers need not fear;  
For whilst she lived true Nants was monstrous deer.  
Yet Brandy-Merchants, sure have cause to grieve;  
Because her Fate admits of no Reprieve.  
Die in their Debts she could not, yet they'll find,  
Their Trad's decayed, for none is left behind;  
That in one Day could twenty Quarts consume,  
And bravely vaunt, she durst it twice presume.  
Bounteous she was, unto herself and would;  
Be sure to taste, what e'er she fancied good.  
As for the Plot, none e'er could tax her (why?)  
Because her Soul did Active thoughts defy:  
She hated Treason, and was always bend;  
To please herself, with Liquid Element.  
Nor could a superstitious Thought prevail,  
To make her in Religious Notions fail.  
No Transubstantiations would she know,  
But what destilled from Pallid Wines did flow.  
Nor any Relict would she own but that,  
Which good St. Brandy did from France Translat.  
Her Care was always to adore the Shrine,  
Or Tavern-Bush, that had the briskest Wine.  
One thing of her, I almost had forgot;  
She oft would praise a seasoned Brandy Pot.  
And with such fervent Kisses grace the Cup,  
That it consented, when she tossed it up  
These are not half her virtuous Deeds, for still,  
She would a Pipe with Expedition fill.  
And then could force the Vapours to abound,  
That Clouds of Smoke would oft invade her round  
And so like Juno, undescerned sit,  
By pleasing Arts, not Charms of Magic Wit.  
But Fortune to the bravest is a Foe,  
When least deserved, she does most envy show.  
And often verse, at last she joins with Fate,  
And persecutes with undeserved Hate.  
For this good Matron, that so well was fed;  
By lean-jawed Death, was into Bondage led.  
I will not say with Typhon's her waste Bulk,  
O'erspread nine Acres, yet her mighty Hulk;  
Six Foot in Compass was supposed to be,  
Too ponderous for a common Destiny.  
No Fate when she was sober durst assail,  
Her well-built Structure, nor could aught prevail.  
Too strong the Basis were, whereon she stood;  
That solid Mass, composed with Flesh and Blood  
Had not perfidious Legs and Feet betrayed;  
The Element could not have Conquest made.  
But here's the Plot! As Jesuits assist each other,  
So powerful Brandy, helped its weaker Brother.  
And both together did effect, what none  
Could have performed; had it been left alone.  
So Joynt-Conspiracies oft ruin States,  
Which are too strong, and brave the Vulgar Fates  
But since this good Matrona's gone, le's pay  
Her Obsequies, and weep without delay.  
Let Briny Tears, from watery Fountains flow,  
And all the Paths with mournful Cyprus strew.  
Red-Noses, you that live by drinking, must  
Attend the Hearse, your places are the first.  
Next after you, in Order must proceed;  
Those social Topers, that no Quarrels breed.  
And next those Heroes, who with Smoke and Fire,  
Can make the entrails of a Pipe expire.  
Those Sons of Vulcan, that his Forge Assume;  
And Caucus like, can belch perpetual Fume.  
And then those Ladies must Attendants be,  
Who are most skilled in Arts of Gallantry:  
As such who scorn, to turn their Backs on Men,  
But if they Close, will Close with them again.  
The next that grace this mournful Train must sing  
A Catch, or Requiem unto Brandy, King  
Of all the powerful Liquors, thus we shall  
Close up this Scene or Pompous Funeral.    

EPITAPH.  

HEre lies entombed within this Marble Pile,  
The wonder of her Sex, who for a while;  
Fate durst not venture on, but taking Breath,  
He has refin'd her to the Arms of Death.  
Readers Lament, for seldom shall you find,  
The weaker Sex to bear so strong a mind.  
Strengthened with all the Virtues France or'th' Rhine,  
England, o● Spain could ere infuse from Wine.  
But Bacchus unkind did tempt her to engage,  
Where she expired by subtle Neptune's Rage.  
Tho Fate was Cruel, yet her Fame remains;  
For drinking, none like her the World contains.  
To after-Ages then, a Stattue raise,  
That so we may Eternalise her Praise.