AN ELEGY Upon the Death of my pretty Infant-Cousin, Mrs. JANE GABRY, Who died within the Month, not without some suspicion of being Overlaid by her Nurses.  

SWeet Babe, why didst thou leave this world so soon,  
Not seen by thy first Parents, Sun, nor Moon?  
●adst only some short Intervals of light,  
●o lead thee from one, to another Night;  
●ill thou shouldst view an everlasting Sun,  
Which ne'er knew shade, because it ne'er begun.  
Pretty Apostate! why no longer stay?  
But newly Christian, and strait fall away?  
Pardon, dear Saint, 'twas not for want of Grace;  
'tis that transports us to a better place.  
Never was Babe baptised with kinder Strife:  
●●●gion helps to save the soul, not life:  
● his thread once spun, bears an unerring date,  
Plot to be broke, or lengthened, but by Fate.  
O heavens! survive the Font but one poor day?  
'twas a short Eve to a long Holiday.  
Was thy too generous heart inspired to die,  
To quit thy Sureties from their costly Tie?  
Mad'st haste to heaven, new washed from Adam's guilt,  
For fear that holy water might be spilt.  
We shall not load thy Nurses with complaints,  
Whose very sin might serve t' increase the Saints.  
●here may be loss, not guilt, without the Will;  
sometimes the Innocent the Innocent kill.  
Nor shall we from thy Inches square thy Bliss,  
As Lovers do theirs, by a short-lived kiss.  
Plants whither here, set in a barren place;  
Heaven is a rich Soil, ripens fruit apace.  
A newborn Bud, a tender Blossom here,  
Is in a moment ripe and perfect there.  
Now thou art full of days: How can there be  
Childhood, or Nonage, in Eternity?  
Why should we then be Mourners to excess,  
As if we grieved at thy stolen Happiness?  
Our showers of tears can only show us kind;  
More proper for poor Us, who stay behind  
In a bad World, full of perplexing Care;  
Whose Charity is colder than its Air.  
Rather convert our Sorrows into Joy,  
To build new hopes for a more lasting Boy.  
The odds will not be great, but three to one; 
Two Girls dead before.   
One Grain will turn the Scale, when three are gone.  
And now, sweet Babe, allow my gentle Verse  
To drop, not Tears, but Wishes on thy Hearse:  
May thy dear Parents and Relations be  
As quiet as thy Grave, as blest as Thee.    

LONDON: Printed Anno Domini 1672.