An Elegie on the Death of Mris Anne Whitfield

by Abraham Cowley

Shee's dead, and like the houre that stole her hence,
With as much quietnesse and innocence.
And 'tis as difficult a taske to winne
Her travelling soule backe to its former Inne,
As force that houre, fled without trail away,
To turne, and stop the current of the day.
What, shall we weepe for this ? and cloath our eye
With sorrow, the Graves mourning Liverie ?
Or shall we sigh ? and with that pious winde
Drive faster on what we alreadie finde
Too swift for us, her soule ? No ; shee who dy'de
Like the sicke Sunne, when Night entombes his pride ;
Or Trees in Autumne, when unseene decay
And slow consumption steales the leaves away,
Without one murmur, shewes that she did see
Death as a good, not as a miserie.
And so she went to undiscovered Fields,
From whence no path hope of returning yeelds
To any Traveller, and it must be
Our solace now to court her memorie.
Wee'l tell how love was dandled in her eye,
Yet curb'd with a beseeming gravitie.
And how (beleeve it you that heare or reade)
Beautie and Chastitie met and agreed
In her, although a Courtier : Wee will tell
How farre her noble spirit did excell
Hers, nay our Sexe : wee will repeat her Name,
And force the Letters to an Anagram.
Whitfield wee'l cry, and amorous windes shall be
Ready to snatch that words sweet harmonie
Ere 'tis spoke out : Thus wee must dull griefes sting,
And cheat the sorrow that her losse would bring:
Thus in our hearts wee'l bury her, and there
Wee'l write, Here lyes Whitfield the chast, and faire.
Art may no doubt a statelier Tombe invent,
But not like this, a living Monument.