You that shall live awhile, before <br />Old time tyrs, and is no more: <br />When that this ambitious stone <br />Stoopes low as what it tramples on: <br />Know that in that age, when sinne <br />Gave the world law, and governd Queene, <br />A virgin liv'd, that still put on <br />White thoughts, though out of fashion: <br />That trac't the stars, 'spite of report, <br />And durst be good, though chidden for't: <br />Of such a soule that infant Heav'n <br />Repented what it thus had giv'n: <br />For finding equall happy man, <br />Th' impatient pow'rs snatch it agen. <br />Thus, chaste as th' ayre whither shee's fled, <br />She, making her celestiall bed <br />In her warme alablaster, lay <br />As cold is in this house of clay: <br />Nor were the rooms unfit to feast <br />Or circumscribe this angel-guest; <br />The radiant gemme was brightly set <br />In as divine a carkanet; <br />Of which the clearer was not knowne, <br />Her minde or her complexion. <br />Such an everlasting grace, <br />Such a beatifick face, <br />Incloysters here this narrow floore, <br />That possest all hearts before. <br /> <br /> Blest and bewayl'd in death and birth! <br />The smiles and teares of heav'n and earth! <br />Virgins at each step are afeard, <br />Filmer is shot by which they steer'd, <br />Their star extinct, their beauty dead, <br />That the yong world to honour led; <br />But see! the rapid spheres stand still, <br />And tune themselves unto her will. <br /> <br /> Thus, although this marble must, <br />As all things, crumble into dust, <br />And though you finde this faire-built tombe <br />Ashes, as what lyes in its wombe: <br />Yet her saint-like name shall shine <br />A living glory to this shrine, <br />And her eternall fame be read, <br />When all but VERY VERTUE'S DEAD.<br /><br />Richard Lovelace<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-mrs-elizabeth-filmer-an-elegiaca/
