A FUNERAL ELEGY ON THE Right Honourable the Lady VISCOUNTESSE CASTLETON.  
FOR Birth and Beauty, height of modesty,  
For Wit and Parts sweet ingenuity;  
A Mother dear, and eke a Nature sweet,  
A loving Sister, and a Wife most meet;  
For a free heart, and eke a bounteous hand,  
She scarce hath left Superior in the Land.  
Able she was with Learned men to reason,  
Nimbly confuting Heresy and Treason.  
In Common Prayers though delight she took,  
yet could she pray full well without a Book;  
Her secret Prayers too (without abuse)  
May be called Common from their frequent use.  
She did not hate a Surplice, nor much love it,  
But far preferred a pure life above it.  
For Ceremonies she would speak one word,  
But three for substance and fear of the Lord.  
Her chiefest care still was for Christian walking,  
She loved good practice, some love only talking.  
She liked those Clergy that now Preach and Pray,  
If by good life, they practised what they say,  
As if they were in earnest, also some  
She favoured too, who late were stricken dumb.  
A true Child of the Church she was, yet kind  
To such as were not fully of her mind;  
Courteous to all, of such sweet disposition,  
Each seber man thought her of his Opinion.  
Her dear Aunt Lister (whom she loved) and she,  
How well in Heaven now do they agree?  
Her Speech was quick, yet all her Language such,  
That none had cause to say it was too much;  
Her habit modest, so that thereby no man  
Need question whether she was man or woman.  
Her neighbours found she did the hungry feed,  
And many ways helped such as stood in need.  
With her dear Lord she up to London went,  
Whence she was called to heavens Parliament;  
While her Lord Sits i'th' Lower House; now she  
Sits in the House of Kings where all agree.  
(May never Law be made below, but those  
That with the Laws of Heaven do justly close;  
That do as well agree with those above,  
As she and her dear Lord did here in Love.)  
Now for this Lord, and for her Children dear,  
For their great loss, I needs must shed a tear:  
But none for her, who now hath gained a Crown;  
Her God who sent her, called but for his own.  
This Life's no Heritage, but a short Lease,  
And well'tis so; sooner our troubles cease.  
Yet for poor Yorkshire-sake, lament I must  
That Lincolnshire hath th' honour of her dust,  
And yet no matter; for I know i'th' end,  
Her Saviour will a Habeas Corpus send,  
And join her body to her Soul above,  
TO sit with Angels, Sing, and Praise, and Love;  
And in the mean time, her Remaines here may  
Sleep quiet till the Resurrection day.  
As for her quondam Lord, in this short life,  
He ne'er can find (I think) a better Wife;  
And for her Children; this I wish, they may  
Be like to her; more than this none need say;  
Only I fear, more will commend her dead,  
Then will lead such a life as she here led.  
In Yorkshire she was born, in London dead,  
In Lincolnshire her dust lies buried:  
Thus North and South, and middle Countries are  
Proud in this Lady, each to have a share.  
York was, and London is, Lincoln shall be  
For her dust sake, called chief of all the three.   

Her EPITAPH.  
Here lies Wit, and Noble dust,  
Here lies honour cannot rust.  
Here lies— (would you know what's next)  
Worth that cannot be expressed.  
This is all I can acquaint,  
She was a Lady, is a Saint  
But it still more you would descry,  
Let Angels tell it, and not I.  
Labour to get where now she is,  
And there behold her Soul in bliss;  
A pleasant sight there to be seen,  
A Lady turned into a Queen.  
A Bellassis, and Saunderson,  
A Castleton, all three in one.  
Here lies, no wonder if you see  
In each man's face a weeping eye;  
For in her life none could afford  
'Gainst this blessed Lady one ill word;  
Her Lord and she they never strove,  
Save who could most each other love;  
And now when faith and hope are ceased.  
Her love is still much more increased.  
Jo. Sh.