As sinn makes gross the soule and thickens it <br />To fleshy dulness, so the spotless white <br />Of virgin pureness made thy flesh as cleere <br />As others soules: thou couldst not tarry heere <br />All soule in both parts: and what could it bee <br />The Resurrection could bestow on thee, <br />Allready glorious? thine Innocence <br />(Thy better shroude) sent thee as pure from hence <br />As saints shall rise: but hee whose bounty may <br />Enlighten the greate sunn with double day, <br />And make it more outshine itselfe than now <br />It can the moone, shall crowne thy varnish'd brow <br />With light above that sunn: when thou shalt bee <br />No lower in thy place than Majesty: <br />Crown'd with a Virgin's wreath, outshining there <br />The Saints as much as thou did'st mortalls heere. <br />Bee this thy hope; and whilst thy ashes ly <br />Asleepe in death, dreame of Eternity.<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-mrs-mary-neudham/
