Letters and poems in honour of the incomparable princess, Margaret, Dutchess of Newcastle.

POEMS, &c.

To the most Illustrious and most Excellent Princess, The Marchioness of NEW-CASTLE. After the reading of her Incomparable POEMS.

MADAM,

WIth so much Wonder we are strook When we begin to read your match∣les Book; A while your own excess of Merit stays Our forward Pens, and do's suspend your Praise; Till time our minds do's gently recompose, Allayes this Wonder, and our Duty show's; Instructs us how your Virtues to Proclaim, And what we ought to pay to your great Fame; Your Fame which in your Countrey has no Bounds! But wheresoever Learning's known, it sounds.

Those Graces Nature did till now divide, Your Sexes Glory, and our Sexes Pride, Are joyn'd in you, and all to you submit, The brightest Beauty, and the sharpest Wit;

No Faction here, or fiercer Envy swayes, They give you Mirtle, while we offer Bayes; What Mortal dares dispute those Wreath's with you? Armd thus with Lightning and with Thunder too.

This made the great New-Castle's Heart your prize; Your Charming Soul, and your Victorious Eyes, Had only pow'r his Martial mind to tame, And raise in his Heroick Breast a Flame; A Flame, which with his Courage still aspires, As if Immortal Fewel fed those Fires: This mighty Chief, and your great self made One, Together the same Race of Glory run; Together on the Wings of Fame you move, Like yours his Virtue, and like his your Love.

While we, your Praise endeavring to rehearse, Pay that great Duty, in our humble Verse, Such as may justly move your anger; you Like Heaven forgive them, and accept them too: But what we cannot, your brave Hero payes, He builds those Monuments we strive to raise; Such, as to after Ages shall make known, While he Records your deathless Fame, his own; So when an Artist some rare Beauty draws, Both in our Wonder share, and our Applause; His Skill, from time, secures the Glorious Dame, And makes himself Immortal in her Fame.

George Etherege.

To her Excellency the Lady Marchioness of New∣Castle, on Her Incomparable Works:

MADAM,

WHen with stol'n Metaphors we would display Those Glorious Lights which rule our Night and Day, We call them Lamps and Spangles, and suborn Our Wits t'obscure, what we cannot adorn: But when some fading Beauty haunts our Eyes Tempting to Praise, what Greatest Souls Despise, We can advance the Phrase all smoothly runs, Her Cheeks are Roses, and her Eyes are Suns.

Great Virtues only by themselves are prais'd; What's highest higher by no Art is rais'd: 'Tis proper only to our Imperfections To need, or to admit, our Wit's Protections.

Were your Pen's Noble Issue such small things, As the fine Poet to his Mistris sings: Or else such pretty Babies as are sent Out from the lab'ring Press, to Complement Our Childish Age; which nothing so wel pleases As Lispings, Weakness, and Wit's Diseases: Then I, perhaps amongst the rest might wast Some Paper, to be your Encomiast; And, in the present mode; pick Crums and Scraps From Sirs that wear their Phancyes in their Caps, And Cook a Mess of Bumbast to delude And glut at once the gaping multitude.

But 'tis your Wit's prerogative to be As far above all Praise as Flattery:

And since you have said All, we boldly may Excuse our selves, you've left us nought to say. In ev'ry Line you give us we descry Your Panaegyrick, our Apology: Where all's so well like you, that to conceive Ought but our wonder may admittance have, Is to suppose, you either cannot see Our meanness, or will veil your Majesty.

Then he betrays your Name whoe're essayes To load it with vain Epithets of Praise: Who seems to understand all you have writ, T'advance his own, doth much abase your Wit.

Madam we're in a maze: such Glorys can Not be beheld by what is only Man. When you are pleas'd to work new Miracles We'll see and read what's yours and nothing else: When you give Eyes as well as Light, when you With Language will on us new Tongues bestow, When you can make us write just as you do; We'll learn to praise your Works: But sure it is Impossible; you can do all but this.

'Tis equally absurd for us to guess We e're should do so much or you ought less.

Thanks for our Freedom from the learned Thrall Of thrice-three Mistresses; you're One and All: Those antique wits which erest would not be seen, But in a mist of obscure Tongues which Screen More Follies far than Phansies, are become Like their own Pump'd-out Oracles all dumb; Great Aristotle and his greater * 1.1Master VVith their long rabble have the same disaster. These Paper-Armies Bodly's Goal contains Your Captives are, fretting in Iron Chains.

One Lady's pregnant Brain has slain whole hosts Of Rabbys, and quite laid their Paper ghosts, VVhich haunted all our Studies, and perplex'd Our wearied thoughts with a Moth-eaten Text. VVho would not give a life that he might live In the next Age, to see the Learned strive VVhose Margin should strut biggest with your Name VVho raise up highest Pyramids of Fame Over your peaceful Ashes; may it be Such Phoenixes can know mortality.

VVas it her modesty (for she's a VVoman) Made Nature Coy, and shew her self to no man?

She walk'd in Vizors till she met with you. VVhat wonder if she did retir'dness vow And to our Ruffian Sex shewd Nun that late Unveil'd to your Sex; and but one of that?

You need not fear to die, she needs must live Her self, whose Noble Office 'tis to give Life to our late Posterity: each line Of yours must be their Oracle, your Shrine. Your Images the work of your own Pen Shall frustrate all the curteous Cheats of men, Pronouncing all your true adorers blest Without the help of Conjuror or Priest.

Be merciful to Captives (Madam) and Kill not all those that bend at your Command. Your softest Sex your Noble Order shall Vote all such cruelty Apocryphal. You have subdu'd the VVorld of Learning, spare At least so much alive as may declare Who was the Conqueror, that all may know VVhate're survives is owing all to you.

You have out-done what's mortal; Imitate Those Pow'rs above which to maintain their state Let some poor vassals live, and worship'd are Not by whom they destroy, but whom they spare.

Then sheathe your Conqu'ring Pen since nothing now Remains unvanquish'd but your Works and you.

On her Grace the Dutchess of New-Castles Closet.

WHat place is this? looks like some Sacred Cell Where holy Hermits anciently did dwell, And never ceas'd Importunating Heav'n Till some great Blessing unto Earth was giv'n; Is this a Ladys Closet? 'tcannot be, For nothing here of vanity you see; Nothing of Curiosity nor Pride, As all your Ladies Closets have beside; No mirrour here in all the Room you find; Unless it be the mirrour of the Mind, Nor Pencil here is found, nor Paint agen But only of her Ink and of her Pen. Which renders her an Hundred times more fair Than they with all their Paints and Pensils are: Here she is Rapt, here falls in Extasy VVith studying high and deep Philosophy: Here these clear Lights descend into her Mind VVhich, by Reflection, in her Books you find, And those high Notions and Idea's too, VVhich, but herself, no VVoman ever knew,

Whence she's their chiefest Ornament and Grace, And Glory of our times: Hail Sacred Place! To which the World in after times shall come, As unto Homer's Shrine, or Virgil's Tomb, Hon'ring the Walls in which she made abode, The Air she breath'd and Ground whereon she trod, Counting him happy, who but sees the Place And happier who least Relick of her has; For whose Sole Inkhorn they as much would bid As once for Epictetus's they did.

Thus Fame shall Celebrate, and thus agen The Arts shall honour her, who honour'd them, Whilst others who in other things did trust Shall, after Death, lye in forgotten Dust.

To the Illustrious Princess, Margaret, Dutchess of New-Castle, on Her Incomparable Works.

VErtue, and Wit's great Magazine, Accept an Offering to your Shrine, Whose wondrous Raptures needs must raise All Souls to Poetry or Praise: With such Amazement I was strook, (Madam) when first I read your Book, To see your Sex with so great Parts, Treat of all Sciences and Arts, As if Inspir'd i'th' Times of Old, When Poetry all things foretold. That Waller, Denham, and the Wits, Who write such mighty things by fits; I did expect should all at least, Have sent in Presents to the Feast,

But that they choose to write no more, Shews they're out-done and so give o're, Though 'tis allow'd their luck was such, They did Coyne Mettle that held Touch, Like Min'ralists, they sprung a Vein Of Oare, they could not long maintain; Your Pregnant Brain does every day Spring Mines of Gold, without allay, The Dross you so Refine that we, Only the purer Mettle see, Yours is th'Elixar of true Wit, Because it finds all Subjects fit. Had Spencer liv'd your Works t'have seen, You must have been his Fairy-Queen. Great Virgil would have thought it due, Not to name Dido Queen, but You. And had you liv'd when Ovid writ You'd been the Subject of his Wit; He would have made a richer Piece Of you, than Helen fair of Greece. You've all that's blest in humane kind, In outward form, and in your mind: When you with Beauty do invite, Your Virtue checks proud Appetite. Some Ladys think they'r born in vain Unless they Teem; your fruitful Brain Brings better issue; here's the odds, They please but Men, you please the Gods. Strange Power 'tis you Govern by, What Nature asks you can deny: Great Miracle in what you do, That can Charm Men and Angels too; Th'honour and envy of our Age, That write for Gown-men, and the Stage;

Though you speak to us in one Tongue, You seem all Languages t'have known, And Secrets to the World reveal, As if the Gods did sometimes steal, To tell you News, and from above You knew all passages of Love, We must conclude 'tis only thence You can have your Intelligence, By which our Knowledge you so raise, You merit Crowns, that ask but Bayes.

To the most Accomplish'd and Incomparable Princess, The Dutchess of New Castle her Grace.

MAdam, 'tis you whom both in Form and Mind, Nature has favour'd 'bove all Female kind, You have been constant from the first of Youth To Friendship, Justice, Chastity and Truth, Wit in your Childhood did begin to reign, And like the Tide came flowing in amain, Wherein such high Conceptions did lye, As rais'd a new and true Philosophy. Things Natural and Moral you have writ, And both in Scenes and Poems shew'd your Wit, Letters and Dialogues declare your Fame, In History you Eternalize the Name Of your Dear Lord, when truly you relate His Loyal Actions for the King and State; All this makes you admir'd and envied too, 'Cause you've done more than any yet could do, In you the Glory of your Sex do's shine, And all perfections in your Soul combine,

What ever is thought Virtue's found in you, Your mind is high, and yet 'tis humble too; Not Pride (as Envy stiles it) but a Flame More noble strives t'immortalize your Fame, For you do stoop to those of low descent, And with compassion to their Case resent, Which Fortune Frowns upon: How can there be A nobler Mind and nearer Deity? Nay Fortune seeing how Nature favour'd you, To her Perfections added Honour too; Thus Honour, Beauty, Wit, and Virtue joyn'd, Made you the greatest Wonder of your Kind, Let none presume to draw your Picture then For you surpass all th'art and Skill of Men, Who e're looks on you with a stricter view Sees Natur's chiefest masterpiece in You.

To the Glory of her Sex, the most Illustrious Princess, the Lady Marchioness of New-Castle, upon her most admirable Works.

NOw let enfranchiz'd Ladies learn to write, And not Paint white, and red, but black, and white, Their Bodkins turn to Pens, to Lines their Locks, And let the Inkhorn be their Dressing-box: Since, Madam, you have Scal'd the walls of Fame, And made a Breach where never Female came. Had Men no Wit, or had the World no Books, Yet here's enough to please the curious looks Of Every Reader: such a General Strain, Would reinstruct the School-boy-world again,

Philosophers and Poets were of old The two great Lights, that humane minds control'd; The one t'adorn, the other to explain, Thus Learnings Empire then was cut in twain. But Universal Wit and Reason joyn's To make you Queen: nor can your sacred Lines Without a Paradox be well express'd Truth never was so naked, nor so dress'd. Majestick Quill! that keeps our minds in Awe, For Reasons Kingdom knows no Salique Law, Or if that Law was ever fram'd 'twas then When Women held the Distaff not the Pen. The Court the City, Schools and Camp agree, Welbeck to make an University, Of Wit and Honour, which has been the Stage, Since 'twas your Lords the Heroe of this Age; Whose Noble Soul is Steward to great Parts, And do's dispence his Reasons and his Arts, His Wit and Power, his Greatness, and his Sense, With as much Freedom, and Magnificence, As when our English Jove became his Guest, And did receive a more than Humane Feast. With Arts of Wit, he mixes those of Force And Pegasus is his old Manag'd Horse. No wonder he excells all other Men, They but Nine Muses had, and he has Ten. A Lady whose Immortal Pen transferrs, To our Sex Shame and Envy, Fame to hers; Whose Genius traces Wit through all her wayes In abstruse Notions, Poems, and in Playes. Then why should we the mouldy Records keep Of Plautus, or disturb Ben Johnson's Sleep? The Silent Woman Famous heretofore Has been, but now the VVriting Lady more.

On the Dutchess of New-Castle her Grace.

MADAM,

WHilst others study Books, I study you, And can b'Experience this affirm for true, Of all your Sex you have the greatest worth As ever yet these later times brought forth, And I have Studied many, and some such As former times could hardly better much, Your Soul so Spiritual it doth appear Fram'd for some Angel of a higher Sphere, However 'twas infus'd, I know not how, Into a mortal Body here below, Aspiring restlesly like Fire and Flame To mount again to th'Sphere from whenc it came, So nobly active as it doth by Truth, As by the World the Macedonian Youth, As soon as y'ave o'recome and Conquer'd one, You grieve there are not more to overcome, There being nothing so Sublime and High But you can reach in all Philosophy; Nor so profound and deep again, but you With ease, can dive and penetrate into, Your Virtues being so infinite, I find When I consider but your Soul and Mind, 'Twere easier for me never to begin Than ever to give o're when once l'm in; Which whosoe're should go about to tell, Might number all the Stars of Heav'n as well, The blades of Grass upon Earth's spacious Plain, Or Sands the Sea's vast Bosome does contain.

But as your greatest Beauties have their moles, So some small faults are still in greatest Souls, And I shall tell you, Madam, what they be, T'acquit my self, o'th Crime of Flattery: 'Tis an Ambition above mortal state, And Mind with Glory never satiate, Without which Glory and Ambition No noble Action yet was ever done, So avidious and so Covetous of Fame, As only for Eternizing their Name They, as the Phoenix life to's young do's give, Would be content to die that that might live. But now I'll tell what my opinion is Of Fame (and pardon if I Judge amiss:) Fame's but a shadow of great action, And but the Eccho of't when we are gone, Than whose Trumpet no Musick is more sweet Nor none's alive more pleas'd with hearing it, But I do'nt know what pleasure I should have, When I am dead with Musick at my Grave.

An Elegy upon the death of the Incomparable Princess Margaret Dutchess of New-Castle.

HEnceforth be Dumb, ye Oracles of Wit; Ye humbly must to Fate submit: How soon must ye decline! How low must fall! Since She is gone who did Inspire ye all? Her Books are the best Patterns for the Pen, Her Person was the best of Subjects too;

In Wit and Sense She did excel all Men; And all her Sex in Virtue did outgoe.

Though Grief affords some Eloquence, Henceforth expect but little Sense; For, since she's gone, all we can do Will but the Pangs of Dying-writers show. VVhen the bright Ruler of the Day Th'Horizon of his Presence has berest Some feeble streaks of Light are left, Yet darkness soon must come, and all that light decay. Our Sun's forever set, we have no hope Of this as of the other Sun's return: VVe all in Darkness must forever grope, And we for ever must in Tears her absence mourn.

Philosophers must wander in the dark; Now they of Truth can find no certain mark; Since She their surest Guide is gone away, They cannot chuse but miserably stray. All did depend on Her, but She on none, For her Philosophy was all her own. She never did to the poor Refuge fly Of Occult Quality or Sympathy. She could a Reason for each Cause present, Not trusting wholly to Experiment, No Principles from others she purloyn'd, But wisely Practice she with Speculation joyn'd.

None was more good, and once none was more fair: She was not as most of her frail Sex are; Who ave Fruitful Wombs but Baren 'Brains, She left the best Remains:

Though we no Issue of her Body find Yet she hath left behind The Nobler Issue of her mighty Mind; Learning she needed not, nor yet despis'd: Though from herself all Arts she knew; The truly Learn'd she nobly Patroniz'd, And every Artist, she encourag'd too.

Let all her Sex fashion by her their Lives: She was the best of Women, best of Wives. T'her Lord Sh'was warme and loving as the Spring, But to all others cold as Winters lce, Her sight on all a shiv'ring awe did bring, And nipt, at first, all vain attempts of Vice; But though in Love she bore a Noble pride, She to each Skilful man of Art Her Conversation freely doth impart, And to all others civil was beside.

But we by praising thus provoke our Grief VVhich never can expect Relief, Nor can the most luxurious Praise (Though penn'd with Art that might deserve the Bayes.) Nor all which we can think afford Ease to her much lamenting Lord: Whose loss does now by far outvye All he yet e're sustain'd Yet he once lost much more for Loyalty Than any Subject, and much less has gain'd; This noble half she left behind Who by her much lamented death must find Too great a Trial for the greatest Mind.

Oh what Expedient can there be Found to support his Magnanimity! The best of Husbands, and the noblest Peer; The best of Generals, best of Subjects too, Whose Arts in Peace as well as War appear: He knows how to advise, and how to do; His Prudence and his Courage might uphold The most decay'd and crippled State, And rescue it from the Jawes of Fate: His Body may, but Mind, can ne're be old; Him she has left, and from our sight is hurl'd And Gloriously shines in the true Blazing VVorld.

Thomas Shadwell.

An Elegy on the Death of the Incomparable Dutchess of NEW-CASTLE.

IF with due honour you would Solemnize The great New-Castles Funeral Obsequies Let every Science in close-mourning stand About the Hearse, with Cypress in her hand: Philosophy herself shall hold the Pall, (She's the chief Mourner at this Funeral) Philosophy which well the Poets drew With Womens Features; here we find it true, Nature, whose Lovers (in their Courtship rude) Into her Privy-Chambers did intrude, Out of her own Sex modestly one chose, To whom her self she naked did disclose: VVho all her wonders did so well explain, That she the only wonder did remain.

Let Rhetorick, the pow'rful Syren there Drest in her richest Livery appear; Drest in those Robes which Tully to her gave When the Worlds Mistress Rome, he made her Slave; Or the strong Reason of New-Castles Books, VVeav'd with the Charming sostness of her Looks: But yet her weakness let her here confess, Her Silence best this Sorrow do's express.

The Muses Her in lasting Tears shall steep, The Graces mourn, and Comoedy shall weep: And thousand Cupids sigh forth mournful Airs, And wish for Eyes, to ease their Grief by Tears. Let them their Bowes in sign of honour wave, And with their Torches light her to her Grave. Nor will they this attendance her deny, Those Torches first were lighted at her Eye. VVho now their un-arm'd Deities will dread? Their Magazine is now demolished. Yet did not her Muse kindle unchast Fires, That Heav'nly Cupid Heav'nly Thoughts inspires: No Kitchin-flames before her Beams would burn, And wanton Love did to Devotion turn. Thus Sol at once lifts up the Lamp of Day, And warms at once, and bids the Persian Pray. Great Issue of Natures united Pow'rs! Glory of your Sex, and Disgrace of ours! Which shall I call the greater Prodigy, That you were such, or being such could Dye? Did Nature fear lest that thy boundless Mind For future search should nothing leave behind? Or did you take this flight to Heav'n to see How it with Thy fair Model did agree? Whate're the cause; Joy rings through every Sphere; And Heav'n more Heaven is since you came there.

None in it with more Native Lustre shine, Or livelier do reflect the light Divine. Such spotless Innocence in that Bosome lyes, Eve thinks she brought you forth in Paradice: For that first crime lest not a lesser trace On any Breast of all her num'rous Race; Excepting one, whom you sit next to there, Who her Creator in her Womb did bear: And with her too almost you may contend, What He Created you did Comprehend. Blest Soul, who dwellest in Essential Light, Direct us lost in Ignorance, and Night! Whilst we with grateful Off'rings, what before We ail admir'd, do humbly now adore.

Knightly Chetwood, Coll. Regal. Cant.

In Obitum Margaretae Ducissae Novo-Castrensis.

BArbara jam sileat, sileat quoque Graia vetustas, Nec jactet fidas Itala terra nurus: Hanc unam attonitum non mendax Fama per Orbem Centeno potiùs debuit ore loqui: Dulcè cavâ Sapphô testudine flebat amorem, Sed nec pulchra a satis, sed néque casta fuit: Haec toto numeris animoque, & corpore constat, Vita etiam castis consonat ipsa modis. Arsit fida suum Letho quóque Portia Brutum, Caesaris at tinctus Sanguine Brutus erat:

Hujus dum Regem sequitur per Bella Maritus, Per medios lgnes Ipsa sequuta Virum. Mausolum epotum taceat Regina subimo Viventem vivens Haec qu••que corde tulit: Pensile nec Tumuli jactet;† 1.2 monumenta Mariti Duratura magis condidit sta sui. Natorum numero Niobe non provocet Illam; Nec specie, Nobes quae Dea stravit opes: Bis septem è gravido, ceu Jupiter, Illa cerebro Pignora dat; (decuit sic peperisse Deam) Pignora ceu speculo totum referentia mundum, Non nisicum Mundo pignora digna Mori. Ah! cur non placuit Tibi vivae Academia sedes, (Ceu* 1.3 Ducis) ut jactet nomine Granta tuo! Invidit sexus; jam Filia non potes esse, E Fama titulus nec foret ille Tuâ. At dum pauperibus legâsti Scripta Camoenis Ditia, dum Mammas exeris usque Tuas, (Nunc eniam super Astra faves) Academia Mater Te Matrem posthàc est habitura suam

Knightly Chetwood, Coll. Regal. Cantabr.

Upon the Death of the Illustrious and Incomparable Lady, Margaret Dutchess of New Castle.

1.

DEath! thou hast done thy worst, we dread not now The threatnings of thy angry Brow. By thy last victory we're hard'ned grown, Learnt to despise thy malice, scorn, and frown. Thy saucie Power is so great, That we like Slaves are become desperate.

2.

Since brave New-Castles Dutchess thou hast slain, We baser Mortals to complain Think it a crime, dye we would rather all, That so we might attend her Funeral, VVait on her, when her Soul takes flight Into the Mansions of Eternal Light.

3.

VVithin her Breast such throngs of Virtues grew That they their Prison overthrew, And being vex'd at this same sottish Age VVhere dull Impertinence so much does rage, Their Fetters broke they upwards hie In hopes to find there better company.

4.

She scorn'd those trifles which her Sex adore, VVhich they vain Fools do value more Than inward worth, would not like them mispend That little time which God to her did lend.

It was her only business here To dress her Soul, and make it fine appear.

5.

Her pow'rful reason aw'd enticing sence, Taught Rebel-thoughts Obedience. VVhen stupid matter would unruly prove, Instructed it, more calmly how to move. External Pleasures she thought Sin, Compar'd with those Delights which dwell within.

6.

So vast a knowledge ne're was yet confin'd Within one single Womans Mind. Her Fancy it was strong, so great her VVit, That nothing but her Judgement equal'd it. When e're she spoke the winged crew Of pretty Notions streight about her flew.

7.

What e're she pleas'd with ease she overcame, Learning before her time was lame, Nature was dress'd but slovenly till she Made it so spruce by her Philosophy. It heretofore in Tatters went, Is grown Gentile now, and can Complement.

8.

Had she but liv'd when blind Antiquity Call'd what it pleas'da Deity. She would have quite engross'd the Worship Trade, Jove and his Kindred had been Bankrupts made. They must have Starv'd without Relief, Pin'd to Mortality, and Dy'd with Grief.

9.

Rome where Divinity was sold so cheap, Who Temples built on ev'ry heap Of dirt and rubbish, would have quickly sent It's Mungril-Gods all into Banishment. Told them 'twas manners to give place To one of a more noble Heav'nly Race.

10.

How well did Providence her real worth Declare to th'World and set it forth, When it in ties of Holy Wedlock joyn'd The best of Men to th'best of Womankind. And suffer'd fair Lucasia's Charms To vanquish and subdue the God of Arms.

11.

The mighty Cavendish could only prove A Husband to the Queen of Love, Heav'n would have had her sooner, 'twas in strife Whether she should Dye first, or be his Wife. At length resign'd its right to show How much to his great merits it did owe.

12.

What Joy above at her arrival there? The Angels crowd to welcome her. And big with wonder all pay Reverence Unto a Soul of so much Excellence, A Soul so pure, so bright all o're, That they the like had never seen before.

To the Duke.

YOur pardon, Sir, if striving to express Perfections which in her were numberless, I vainly mine own weakness do betray, And show how little foolish Rhithms can pay To her vast Merits, which like th'Ocean stretch And drown what ere dares come within their reach. For if to tell of with due Praise her Fame, And as I ought her Virtues to Proclaim: She would have had me rightly understood She must have been less Worthy and less Good.

On the Death of the most Illustrious Princess, the Lady Dutchess of NEW-CASTLE.

An EPITAPH.

SHe's Dead, and here she lies; the vulgar cry: Fools know not that great Wits can never dye. She sleeps; nay, that's too much: As well could she Admit of Death, as such a Lethargie. Yet say she Sleep, her very Dreams outvie All our Grave Lectures of Philosophy. Perhaps she Rests; 'tis time for her: but O! What Fates attend her Rest poor Mortals know. Tir'd with this World's Impertinence, she's come For privacy to this Retiring-Room: The place we call her Tombe, where she doth lie, But 'tis her Closet, our great Library. Howe're, she hath withdrawn her felf from hence, And our Wits Freez, rob'd of her Influence.

Like breathless Statues, here we stand all dumb, Not one wise word to set upon her Tomb. The brightest Sun blind Moles must never see; So she seems dead because we senseless be. Her sprightly Soul, ful of Aethereal Fires, Up far above our Regions now aspires, To seek new Game, since all things here below Grew stale, and nothing left she did not know. Her Phant'sies heat had scortch't all Subjects, hurl'd The Universe into the Blazing-World: And having nought out of her self do do, She soon too active for her Body grew. Spirits are not confin'd, out thence she flashes, And leav's her house consum'd to these few ashes. Puff then broil'd Chymist, wrangle out thy Fire, Th'Elixyr's fled: and till thou canst inspire These silent Ashes with new Forme, restore Us such a Phoenix as we had before; In spite of thy big words, we standers by Shall call thee fool, and thy fine Art a Lie. Be gone thou silly Poet, and invoke The Destinies, thy Muses all are broke, Cannot inspire thee longer, but by stealth Out of her Books the Muses Common-wealth. This Ladies learned Dust which here doth lye Hath drunk thy boasted Helicon quite dry. Bring, old and new Philosophers, your Art, Rip up Dame Natures Bowels, pierce her Heart. Alas, all's now too late, here's nothing left, Her early Industry hath you berest Of all her Jewels, and your Wits at once; And bids you this new title wear, Grave Dunce. She could not else have gone to rest so soon, Who never paus'd before her work was done.

All Natures Treasure in this Tomb doth lye, If you would find it. Fools despair and dye. Here lies that noblest Lady, whose great name Hath choak'd the Muses, and hath glutted Fame. A Name! All Poetry is mute to hear it, This hardest Marble here doth sweat to bear it. And did not yet the Sacred Ashes live, And better words to Stones, than Men have, give. We could not know that here enclosed lies, The wonder of admired Mysteries. Arts, Sciences, Muses, and Graces all Comprised in one Golden Manual. If thou wouldst know more of her, search for it Amongst the many Wonders which she writ. If out of those thou canst not spell and frame Th'illustrious Dutchess of New-Castles Name, Thou hast but one help left thee, in a word, Consult the Living-Oracle, her Lord. 'Tis Treason against Wit for any one To speak her name at length, but him alone: Seeing in him, and him alone, we find Whatever she of Wit hath left behind. And VVit this Lady-Wonder shall survive VVhilst this great Prince of Honour is alive. Yea, may He live, till we can weary grow Of all that Nature in one piece can show; Wit might seem larger whil'st in Two it shone, 'Tis stronger now contracted into One. VVhilst by his Curtesy she had ingros'd So much, the honour of our Sex seem'd lost: Wit was Hermaphrodite, when One in Twain; But now 'tis only Masculine again.

Clement Ellis, Minister.

Tumulus Nobilissimae, Illustrissimaeque Principis, Margaretae Ducissae Novi-Castri.

QUis Deus extremum possit prohibere dolorem, Cùm Dea sublimi tendit in Astra fugâ? Pectore lacteolo condatur ferreus ensis, Et non purpureo Sanguine tinctus erit? Alta cadat ••edrus, nemorosae gloria Sylvae, Non tamen ad Coelos diriget or a fragor? Quid vetet, ut Saevi perculsus imagine fati Non gemat, & nubes dissipet usque suas? Lampade victrici dum transfert Foemina morti, (Foemina, cui nomen non nisi gemma fuit,) Unica, virtutum comitatus, vita, salusque, Graviter officiis consuluisse suis. Hoc fuit innuptae decus, observâsse parentes; Uxoris, Domini non violâsse torum. Non dolus aut ferrum, mollis facundia, nec vis Surripuit nuptam Conjugis è gremio. Sed sitiens mortis telum divortia fingit, Et, quod non poterant caetera fata, facit. Occidit illa, suis-decus, omnibus altera Pallas, Deliciae Musis, Coelitibúsque comes, Nunquid in aeternum vivet post Funer a Virtus? Nunquid eruditi fama superstes erit? Qui poterit vivae tolli virtutis Imago? Ardentem Pallas non super are rogum? Num febris calor insanae praeordia vellit? Et Canis aestivus viscera caeca vorat? Nostrarum extinguet Lachrimarum copia morbum, Mortis & immerget spicula saeva dolor. Frigida Sublimem repetunt Cruciamina Mentem? Vitalesque aurae deseruêre focum?

En nostri in tantam Dominam flagrantia Zeli Scintillas reparat, Religióque fovet. Certè igitur fatis nondum concessit iniquis Foemina, quae nullo crimine tincta fuit. Nonita jampridem divinitùs acta Creatrix (Unius est summi, posse creare, Dei.) Ex nihilo finxit diversa volumina Coeli, Mundum alium, stabiles fixit utrinque Polos. Huic se transmisit Solio, quia pulchrior illi Virtutum est facies, formáque lucidior; Quàm quae vel lippis vulgus dignetur ocellis; Aut nostro immeritos praebeat Orbe dies: Sic nimia Phoebus nè vi perstringeret Orbem, In Clymenis gremium nocte silente redit. Huc se transmisit, ne longa absentia Mundum Jam tum constructum verteret in cineres. Istum dura Fames torqueret, crapula nostrum, Aequales si non tendat utrique manus. Ne tantam invidiam pariat, quòd inhospita tecta Linquat, pernici Pectore summa petens; Haec non contineat spatiosam angustia mentem, Quae velit influxum reddere utrique solo. Indulsit nostris sua quaeque Volumina terris, Nunc alios Orbes hisce beare cupit. Utque sciant omnes, quantùm sciat omnia, sese Transtulit, expressam Numinis effigiem.

ANDERTON.

In Illustrissimam Dominam Margaretam, Novi∣Castri Ducissam,

EPITAPHIUM.

SIste Paulisper gradum, Viator, Non longûm moreris erit necesse: Legenti licet currere, Currenti licet legere, Utrique intelligere, Quòd hic sita est Lectissima Foemina, Domina Margareta, Neo-Castrensis Ducissa. Nobilitate verè Aulicâ, Eruditione verè Academica, Pietate verè Coelicâ, Praedita & dotata. Animo virili, super sexum, Sapientiâ senili supra aetatem, Ingenio entheo, supra sortem, Afflata & imbuta. Quam licèt ex hoc nostro discas Vixisse, In suis tamen scriptis edisces Vivere, Scilicet in Vitâ quam scripsit, Mariti, Suam quoque perpetuare. Quam licèt Bona Opera, Moralia, Evangelica, Ad arces Coelorum avolantem secuta sint. Literata tamen Philosophica, Historica, Poëtica, In Terris spirantem & commorantem reserunt, Servabuntque superstitem. Fuit Florentissimi Mariti, Uxor Splendidissima,

Bellicosi viri, Doctissima Matrona, Armati Ducis, Togata Ducissa, Quam si habuisset Socrates Uxorem, Plato ejus Philosophiam, non literis mandâsset. Quae si habuisset Caesarem Maritum, Ille non sua Gesta suâ manû scripisisset. Illa ipsa Socratis Dicta Enarrâsset. Illa ipsa Caesaris Facta Enarrâsset. Illa ipsa Fidelitèr, Feliciter, Enarrâsset. Qualem si Martialis mordax speravisset sibi, Nunquam non Doctissimam Conjugem optâsset. Quam modò, Historias omnes callentem, Curtúmque torquere Enthymema potentem, Rebúsque honestis Finem Ultimum imponentem, Cúmque Homero Maronem comparantem. Utrumque imitantem, Vidisset Satyricus, non frontem corrugâsset, Non intollerabilem Uxorem, Sed Raram in Terris Avem, dixisset. Vitam In Aulâ Regiâ, Honoratam, Egit. Vitam In Minervae Castris, Eruditam, Egit. Vitam In Ecclesiâ Dei, devotam, Egit. Vitam Domi, Contemplativam, Egit. Vitam Foris, Activam, Egit. Vitam Piè, Placidè, Pacatè Egit. Mortem Mortali natae, Expectatam, Obiit. Mortem Philosophiae diditae, non formidatam, Obiit. Mortem Ad Christianam spem vocatae, exoptatā, Obiit. Mortem Laetè, Tranquillè, Beatè, Obiit. Quâ translata est Obiit. A meditatione purâ, ad Perfectam Visionem, A creaturis contemplandis ad intuendum Creatorem, A Poëtarum camoenis, ad Angelorum Hymnos, Ab Aulâ Terrenâ, ad Curiam Coelestem.

Libros Suos, sobolem Suam, ad utramque Academiam Misit, at ad dandam non capiendam doctrinam. Quibus Bibliothecas publicas ditavit, Quae Ipsa Bibliotheca Animata fuit. Opera illius fuere suum pretium, Labores illius suum praemium. Dedit, ut Herodotus unum Librum, Singulis Musarum unum volumen. Quae cum sunt ingressa Bibliothecam Joannensem, (Solam nobis ex officio memorandam Bibliothecam) Quàm densum obviam vênit agmen salutantium? Quae cùm sua ibidem subsellia petebant, Quâm grande fuit certamen locum cedentium Vitam Conjugis, quam scripsit, ad suas Parallelas Apposuit Plutarchus, & locum apparavit. Philosophia, quam scripsit, se Veteribus adjungi Modestè non dignata, ad Recentiores concessit. Poetas omnes singulósque unicè dilexit, Omnésque singulósque suo ordine visit avit. Indigna est loco isti catenâ alligari, Ad quem sibi adeò liberè accessum rogavit. Anima Ejus regnat in Choro Beatorum, Corpus (vides) jacet hîc in Choro Poëtarum. Illa Ipsa, Ut in Annulo gemma, utrobique refulget. At Tu, quisquis es, Viator, Orandus es Lachrymulis Tuis, pro merito, novum Heliconis hîc Rivum dare, Ubi Musis jam fecerunt novum Tot Poëtarum tumuli Parnassum.

Tho. Brown, Coll. Joan. Cantab.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Plato:
• † 1.2

  Vitam ejus descri∣psit.
• * 1.3

  Qui fuit è Coll. Jo∣hannes Can∣tabr.