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AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ANNE WHITFIELD, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Shee's dead, and like the hower that stole her hence
Last Line: But not like this, a living monument.
Subject(s): Death; Dead, The


SHee's dead, and like the hower that stole her hence,
With as much quietnesse and innocence.
And 'tis as difficult a taske to win
Her travelling soule backe to its former Inne,
As force that houre, fled without tract away,
To turne, and stop the current of the day.
What, shall wee weepe for this? and cloath our eye
With sorrow, the Grave's mourning Liverie?
Or shall wee sigh? and with that pious winde
Drive faster on what wee already finde
Too swift for us, her soule? No; she who dy'd,
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 bee
Our solace now to court her memory.
Wee'l tell how love was dandled in her eye,
Yet curb'd with a beseeming gravity.
And how (beleeve it you that heare or reade)
Beauty and chastity met and agreed
In her, although a Courtier: we will tell
How farre her noble spirit did excell
Her's, nay our Sexe: wee will repeate her Name,
And force the Letters to an Anagrame.
Whitfield wee'l cry, and amorous windes shall bee
Ready to snatch that word's sweet Harmonie
Ere 'tis spoke out; thus wee must dull griefe's sting,
And cheate 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.





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