AN ELEGIE On the Famous and Renowned LADY, for Eloquence and Wit, Madam MARY CARLTON, Otherwise styled, The German Princess.
OH Dire Misfortune! 'twas a cruel Fate
Should make her wit the object of its hate.
Death surely hath no mercy in his sting,
To noose a Princess in a Hempen String.
Had he or manners, or a sharpen'd Dart,
He had e're now surpriz'd her Martial heart;
And not admitted her in all the throng
Of Beauties, to ride Conqueress so long:
But he in policy observ'd her will,
Spar'd her to send more Grists unto his Mill;
For she, whose Beauty lay within her pate,
Slew more by Love, then Death could slay by hate.
But yet we see in vain it is to groan,
The Gallows, and the Grave, refuseth none.
Nor let the Reader now exalt his horn,
None know their Doom so soon as they are born.
And who is he that dares to have the skill
To judge who next shall ride up
Holborn-Hill?
Nor is it much material; Fate, we know,
More ways then one unto the Grave can show;
Some by Beheading, some by a Surprize;
Some by those Darts shot from their Ladies Eyes:
Nor has the Gallow-Tree been ill adorn'd,
Lords, Knights and Gentlemen, have there bin scorn'd:
'Tis not the manner of their Deaths that die,
That make them odious, but their Obloquie.
Detracting from good breeding, looks more black
Then many faults, in them good breeding lack.
The world miscall'd her Cheat; when as her strife
Was to act Natures part, preserve her life:
Or if it was her Genius to approve
O'th' Female Craft, its Sentiments of Love.
Who can ill language on her Craft bestow,
In seeking to have two strings to her Bow?
Thus Fate with Ignominy doth reward
Those daring Souls, that seldom have regard
To the success of what they undertake,
And turns a Golden Wedge into a Stake
'Twas
Canterbury, that thrice-happy Earth,
Grew proud, because it chanc't to give her birth.
Her Father, though but mean by Pedigree,
Liv'd well belov'd in that most spacious See;
And she grown up to years, acquiring man,
Improv'd, till she was Metropolitan:
Yet her cross stars too suddenly have hurld
Her parts from hence, into another World.
HER EPITAPH.
HEre lieth one was hurried hence,
To make the World a recompence
For Actions wrought by Wit and Lust,
Whose Closet now is in the Dust.
Then let her sleep, for she has Wit
Will give Disturbers Hit for Hit.
FINIS.
LONDON: Printed for Samuel Speed, 1673.