A sermon at the funeral of the Right Honourable the Lady Jane eldest daughter to His Grace, William, Duke of Newcastle, and wife to the Honourable Charles Cheyne, Esq, at Chelsey, Novemb. I, being All-Saints day by Adam Littleton ...

An Elegy on the Death of the Thrice Noble and Vertuous Lady the Lady Jane Cheyne, Eldest Daughter to Willi∣am Duke of Newcastle.

DIsmal the darkness, fearful was the Night, All thoughts were banish'd bord'ring on delight; Nature wore Blacks, and the Worlds beauteous Eye Fled far from the approaching Tragedy: My doubtful Muse lay trembling, when the Knell More doleful from the midnight passing Bell, Subtracting hopes addition gave to Woe, Now ripe in Numbers, and in Tears to flow. Ye Chelsey Fields no more your pleasures boast, Your greatest Pride, is with your Lady, lost; No more cry up your sweet, and healthy Air, Now only fit for such as breath despair; Of your delightful River brag no more, Briny its Waves, and Fatal is its Shore; Not all its Sands can count the Tears we spilt, Not all its Stream can wash away this guilt. Farewel (Dear Lady) now a blessed Saint: Did not Religion on us lay restraint, Our Vows and Prayers soon would turned be From Praying for, to Praying unto Thee; But these as fruitless are, as those are vain; Thou feelest none, nor pitiest our pain, Our Eyes will better shew the Love we bore, Where to lament's more fit, then to implore;

And sorrow sure our loss will most become, Like losing Gamesters when we count the sum. Her Noble Birth she from Newcastle took; High in Bridgwater, and in Bullingbrook: But she not half so Great as she was Good, Ow'd her least Praise to her Illustrous blood; By her intrinsick Worth her Titles rise More splendid from her Vertues, then Allies; And she more Honour gave unto their Fames, Then she derived from their mighty Names, Yet not pufft up with Honours Timpany, Like Stars she less appear'd for being High; And like them too she freely did dispence On all beneath her gentle Influence; So sweetly condescending, as if she Less then our selves had own'd a Dignity; Her Goodness did our Modesty besiege, She never knew where she did not oblige: Hence at her Ills so common was our grief, Nothing but hers could perfect our relief; Tears drown'd our Joy, Joy did from Tears release, As her Distempers did arise or cease; And at her Death an Universal groan Was heard, as if her Fate had been our own. Since then she's gone, Oh! that I could inherit One portion of her great Poetick Spirit, Like him who caught Elijah's Mantle, I Of Her and Heaven soon would Prophecy: My Muse should learn to bear a noble Part, And boundless Grief make regular by Art: An Art she knew and practised so well, Her Modesty alone could it excell; Which by concealing doubles her Esteem: 'Tis hard to understand and not to seem.

Wandring abroad small Poets does become, Great Wits (like Princes) best are seen at home: And yet her Name might Patronize a Muse Defying strictest Censure to accuse; For whatsoe'er her Fancies stamp did own, Was Sterling Coin to be refus'd by none; Without allay, and as her self refin'd High as her Birth, yet gentle as her mind; Where Female sweetness manly strength did meet, At once (like Samsons riddle) strong and sweet, If such her Art, her Nature was the same, As this her Wit, so that adorn'd her Frame Mov'd by a Soul so Pious, that might be Well term'd a Beam of the Divinity; Which in her Life, and Actions shone so bright That We i'ts Heat perceiv'd, as well as Light; Her thousand Graces with a mingled Ray, Made her Lifes Path seem one pure milky Way; Whilst others Splendors only shew their Blots; As the Moons Light discovers her own Spots. Her Passions all to Reason gave the sway, As she unto her Husband did obey; From just Complyance neither did desist, 'Cause neither were accustom'd to resist; Each kept within it's proper bounds, and range, Serving to vary her, but ne're to change. Her Humor still in Complaisance did 'bide, Ne're ebb'd to Sullenness, nor swell'd to Pride. In her a Multiply'd Example's gone; And many Noble Patterns lost in One: None more Devout, none was more Chast of Life, None better Mother, none more loving Wife; Three Blessings (Copies of her self) she brought, Yet was her self the greatest Blessing thought:

Worthy by none, but him to be possest, Who best deserv'd her, 'cause he lov'd her best; Such his affection as in Truth extends Beyond th' Examples of the loving Friends: Her griefs he griev'd, and all her Pains he felt, As if one Soul within two Bodies dwelt; And she from that did part (I'm bold to say) With less regret then He from her away: With hers He would have given up his Breath, And Love preserv'd untoucht by mighty Death: But that to dare to suffer life might prove More kindness to the Pledges of her Love.

Pardon (Dear Saint) my Muses wandring fire; Silence is heard, where'ts easie to admire: The praise that him I give (praise justly due) I'm sure you will not think detain'd from you; 'Tis equal to rejoyn, whom cruel Fate So hardly did attempt to separate. As you to dye his glory were content, So may he live your noblest Monument.

FINIS.