Epitaph For Maria Wentworth
And here the precious dust is laid;
by Thomas Carew
Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betray'd.
Else the soul grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sin,
And so was hatch'd a cherubin.
In height, it soar'd to God above;
In depth, it did to knowledge move,
And spread in breadth to general love.
Before, a pious duty shin'd
To parents, courtesy behind;
On either side an equal mind.
Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
To servants kind, to friendship clear,
To nothing but herself severe.
So, though a virgin, yet a bride
To ev'ry grace, she justified
A chaste polygamy, and died.
Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
We owe this world, where virtue must,
Frail as our flesh, crumble to dust.