SONG. To the Tune of Adieu Phillis.
'TIS true, our Life is bur a long Disease,
Made up of real Pain and seeming Ease.
You Stars, who these entangled Fortunes give,
O tell me why
It is so hard to dye,
Yet such a Task to Live?
If with some Pleasure we our Griefs betray,
It costs us dearer than it can repay.
For Time or Fortune all Things so devours;
Our hopes are crost,
Or else the Object lost,
E'er we can call it ours.
An Epitaph on my Honoured Mother-in-Law Mrs. Phillips of Portheynon in Cardiganshire, who dyed Jan. 1. Anno 16623.
REader stay, it is but just;
Thou dost not tread on common Dust.
For underneath this Stone does lye
One whose Name can never dye:
Who from an Honour'd Lineage sprung,
Was to another matched Young;
Whose Happiness she ever sought;
