On the Death of Mris MARY SOAME, Wife of Mr. Edmond Soame of Hackney, Who departed this Life, February the 5th, 1669.  

THe dumb-born Child viewing those hands which were  
imbrued in's Parents Blood, cried out, O spare!  
Relation me constrains to sympathise,  
And though a Corydon-MUSE, to Poetize.  
Ah spiteful Death! Of Life to cut the Thread,  
Before that half the Work was finished.  
It was thy wont to spare the blooming Rose,  
And first to fill thy Lap rather with those  
Which withering die; or such as blasted be,  
And which by Natures Laws are doomed for thee,  
But this young Lady scarce was in her prime,  
Her tender years might well claim longer time:  
'tis no great Age for Mortals to arrive  
At fifty years, hers were but twenty five.  
It is allowed thee to pluck up the Weeds,  
Not to destroy the choicest of our Seeds.  
Alas, what signifies this one poor Lamb,  
Thine hungry skeleton to fat or cram?  
Thou Tyrant grim! How couldst thou stop thine Ears,  
And no Compassion take on Cries and Tears?  
Why so inexorable! Did it raise  
Thine envy for her, because of that praise  
Which, as due Tribute, all were bound to pay  
Her shining virtues? Who but knew her way  
Of acting tow'rd her gracious LORD above,  
Her Exemplary Duty, and her Love  
〈◇〉 her Husband, Parents, Children, and Relations;  
Scarce to be paralleled in all these Nations:  
And how did her two harmless Babes transgress,  
That thou shouldst also strike them Motherless?  
A goodly Triumph for thee, cruel Death!  
In six months time to worry out of breath  
A tender Lady, yet couldst not provoke  
Her to impatience by any stroke;  
Though with strange fits thou storm'dst her, and with pain  
Didst rack her, all that while she'd scarce complain.  
Thou never couldst make her to unclasp her hold  
Of CHRIST, being a Lamb of his own Fold,  
Which in his Bosom he so safely laid,  
That of the lion she was not afraid.  
Her Heart on him was so entirely bent,  
That subtle Satan did forbear to tempt;  
The worst she spake, midst all extremity,  
Was, Come, Lord Jesus; Lo, I die, I die.  
Needs must her End be Peace, who lived so well,  
But I want room and words her Worth to tell:  
And to trayl all her virtues, I shall not  
Attempt, lest flourishing, my Pen should blot.  
Yet to epit'mize all, rarely did strand  
A Vessel richer laden on Death's Sand.  
When the Great Painter would that Grief descry,  
Which passed his Art, he drew a veil; So I  
In silence must adumbrate what my Quill  
Cannot delineate for want of Skill.   

Well Death, the Cab'net's thine; for thee too good:  
But yet the Jewel's Christs, bought with his Blood:  
And thee, our En'my, who dost thus annoy  
All mortal Race, he will at length destroy.   

Deaths Answer.  

WHat murmur's this I hear? Better be still:  
I 'm but the Instrument; It was the Will  
O'th' Great JEHOVAH: I did but unloose  
The Snarl of Life, whereby as with a Noose,  
She was with-held from Him, whom to gain-say  
Rebellion is; All powers must Him obey.  
What blame's for me, in that I did transpose  
Out of your Bosom into his, the Rose?  
What loss for her, that she is gone before  
Her Friends to heaven, and shall henceforth no more  
lye down and wake, as th' Living do, in Sorrow;  
Though Creature-Comforts they may steal or borrow.  
Talk not of Envy, nor my Cruelty;  
I must my Office do impartially.  
If to convey her Home, you call i● wrong;  
Well if no worse I deal with you ere long.  
If I should heed your Cries, to Tears, or Moan,  
I should let This, and That, and All, alone.  
If I should yield to all who do me woe,  
I should have Little, or Enough to do.  
If Gold or Silver me could ere have bribed,  
The Great Ones, now in atoms, never had died.  
I level in the Dust, Mattock and Crown;  
Cedars, as well as Shrubs, my Sythe cuts down,  
But here's the difference: They who grafted are  
In the True Vine, though they seem dead and sare  
In Pruning-time; yet are they so alive,  
That when the Sun draws near, they sprout and thrive.  
Their Rest to them is blessed: But it's far worse  
With all that are not ransomed from the Curse:  
They lye a while entombed in their Urn,  
And when the Trumpet sounds, must rise to burn.  
None die in dying by the stroke of Fate,  
But who want JESUS for their ADVOCATE.