The virgins pattern, in the exemplary life and lamented death of Mrs. Susanna Perwich, daughter of Mr. Robert Perwich, who departed this life ... July 3, 1661 published at the earn[est] request of divers that knew her well, for the use and benefit of others / by John Batchiler, a neer relation ...

Here follow certain Copies of Verses, composed by some of the friends of the Deceased. In memory of that eminently Vertuous, his much honoured Cozen, Mrs. Susanna Perwich.

ANd what! is death of late so meal'd mouth'd grown As to sleight courser, and to feed on none But natures choicest dishes? must her heart Needs feel the point of his all-conquering dart? Could neither Beauty, Vertue, him provoke To hold his hand from this sad fatal stroke? Could they have don't, then certainly we may Conclude that she had liv'd still to this day. 'Tis no Hyperbole to say her mind Others in rarest ex'lencies out-shin'd. The Vertues which elsewhere lay scattered, Within her breast were all concentered. But why do I thus stammer out her worth? There needs an Angels tongue to set it forth. Y••t now she's gone; let not her dear friends weep, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 she's not dead, but only fall'n asleep; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her rejoyce, that God them honour'd so, ••••••h a rich gift upon them to bestow.

With whom we leave her, and shall add but this, In heavenly joyes her soul now sollac'd is; Warbling out sweetest Anthems 'bove the skies, Not such as are found in the Lythurgies. Well! what remains, but this one wish, that we Who stay behind, may be as good as she?

S. R.

Some serious thoughts let forth for my deceased Friend, Mrs. Susanna Perwich.

OH help me Muses, you that softly sing In solitaries, bring me on your wing, Where grief may melt me, and my tears extend, To touch, each loyal heart that means to spend Some select mournings, that our lives may be The perfect Emblems of true Piety. We know our frailties, and we can't express It more to purpose (mortals) see this Herse Whereon doth lye, the body of our Friend, A soul too good, too great, too soon to end; And yet her star is not extinct, for she Triumphs in glory over misery.

What mean then thus our thoughts to mourn, o•• why Do they complain? will still my watery eye Dissolved be in tears? stop, stop, no more Of thy distilling; peace, 'tis time, give o're. Lift up thy down-cast senses, see her set In beams of brightness, labour thou to get To her preferment, and thou maist be sure Thou wilt exchange thy dross for what is pure▪ Call home thy dunghil cogitations, be An imitator of her charity. Abound in goodness, and let love invite Thee to her pattern, for her sole delight Was to be pious, courteous, sweet to all; Not vainly proud, nor subject to have gall. Free to forgive the greatest wrongs, and she Never took pleasure in much jolity; But wisely ponder'd in her serious cell 'Twas best becoming wisdom for to dwell Within its proper walls, and there to be Protected from injurious falsity. In sum, her life was such as might have been A Nautick-card, to guide the best of men.

I. H.

Upon that incomparable Lady, Mrs. Susanna Per∣wich, the miracle of her Age, for all Excel∣lencies, both Spiritual and Temporal.

WAat ails my thoughts? I'm haunted so with grief, That to my mind nothing can yeeld relief. ••hat do I ask the reason? it is plain, ••a'n't every face an Elegiack strain? ••reat sorrow can't be smother'd, in each eye ••ppear the sad complaints of misery. What are we mortals now at last bereft ••ven of that little which the Fall had left? What is that Lady struck by death's keen darts, ••n whom concentred all the heavenly Arts? ••hus sad were mortals, when Astrea flew ••o Heaven, and bid the cursed earth adieu. ••'m nought but stormes within, they'l not be pent, My heart must break, or I must give them vent. Come then my Muse, try if rais'd by her fall, Thou canst her image to my mind recall: Her beauty and rare features I'le forbear, Lest thinking on them, I should surfeet there.

I'le boast not of her blood, though in her face, Both Lancaster and York had equal place: But she was Musicks Master-piece, a wonder, Oh that I could but run division on her. What means this sudden stroke? did Pallas fe•• (Musicks great Goddess) to be challeng'd here In her own Art, and lose that glorious name, Which hath so sounded in the trump of fame? Or wa'n't the heavenly Lyra sweet alone, To make a Consort? is she thither gone? When hospitality out of England went, She's said to ave yeelded up her breath in Kent; So Musick in her, whom we now bemoan, I fear will prove to'ave given its last groan. If she unseen did sing, I wish'd to be All ear; if after that I her did see, My wish was chang'd, I fain would be all eye, That so I might her glorious gifts espie. Sure nature framed her for this intent, That of their wishes men might still repent. Orpheus his well tun'd soul in her did live, If to Pythagoras we may credit give; He made the eared Oaks dance to his layes, And duller stones the walls of Thebes to raise. But what is more, she stony Rocks could move,

Rough tempers mild after her play would prove. But if you look on skill in Musicks Art, What is most rare, she had a well-tun'd heart: For although others the sphears harmony Could never hear, because o'th' noise and cry Of worldly things, yet sure she this had heard, Her soul to Heaven was so often rear'd: She ne're was so well pleas'd with Musicks airs, As when she rose to Ela in her prayers: 'Twas far more pleasure to her, and content, To tune her heart, than tune her Instrument. Those rarities that in her breast did lye, She cloathed all with rich Divinity. When the three Goddesses did each contend For th' golden Ball, Parts did recommend It unto Venus; but she unto Grace, On th' contrary did give the chiefest place; For though those earthly Syrens did their part; That each might gain that golden Ball, her heart; Yet she did stop her ears to all their strife, And gave it unto Christ, the Lord of Life. She was our Phenix, but this breaks my heart, Her ashes can't another Life impart: But is she dead? and did not every thing, Rush into its first Chaos once again?

For since the harmony o'th' world is gone, I expect nothing but confusion. Philosophy now fails, that argument It us'd to prove the Heavens are permanent, In her's confuted, for her perfect form, Could not discharge her body from the worm.

E. B.

UPON

Mistris

Sure there are mysteries hid in this Name, Under it's comprehended so great fame. Search well the Holy Language, Rabbins all, And see what mean the lerters radical. Ne're were a Females parts improv'd so high, Nature in her did meet with industry: And every letter in this Name sure will Prove Hieroglyphicks of her various skill. Equal to her were none, for parts, or worth, Religion yet did chiefly set her forth. Weep Reader, weep, this fair one's snatcht away, In her best years she felt her strength decay. Can any read this without sighs, and say, Here lyes a mirror wrapped up in clay?

Idem.

An eLegIe on that peerLess VIrgIn, SVsan•• PerWICh, Paragon of aLL VertVe, the fLoVrIshIng gLory of her seXe, Who LateLy DeCeaseD, DDCCLLLLLLLLXVVVVVVVVVIIIIII.

VVOuld tears permit, would sighs an•• sobs give way My honest Muse her mournful deb•• would pa•• Unto thy Herse, dear Saint. Can grief give time Or knows it measure, can't compose a Rhime? Strong duty bids it try, though't be confus'd, Grief to trim Dress, or Order is disus'd. Now from the Fortress of my love-stor'd heart Officious words would sally, to bear part I'th' rites, but by an ambushment of tears Surpriz'd: I'le try again devoid of fears.

Now try we if 't be true, or meer surmises, That from the Phenix urn another rises: If this prove true, 'twil give our grief a lank, Whose prouder swelling laughs at bound or bank

Were I in Sect a Petrolitan Holding that mannerly devotion ran Through th' Conduits of the Saints: her Name alone I would adore, at her shrine make my moan.

If not by Precept, but by Precedent (A breathing Precept) Vertue best is sent Into the soul, behold a perfect Guide, In whom all Vertues are exemplifi'd: Courted by strong Temptations to be proud, Yet in Fames silver Trumpet sounds aloud Her great Humility; which was the ground Whereon her other Vertues flower'd were found, This vertue is the ground on which the rest Run sweet division in a fair contest. On this firm Basis that bright Fabrick stands, Which kisses Heaven and the Clouds commands, So many excellencies were her lot, One in anothers beauty is forgot. As calm she was in words as in desires, Knew not her Sexes tempests nor their fires. Some are but fairer Aeolus his Dens, In which the winds and blustring storms he pens.

Beauty, Proportion, Colour do define, To which some graceful motion well adjoyn; Whereto may voice be added, all these here

Conspir'd to place her fame above a Peer.

Though chaste and comely seldom we do see In high degrees (at least) conjoyn'd, yet she Was Beauties darling, Modesties delight, Giving as rare as ravishing a sight.

Hackney, the Ladies University Of Female Arts the famous Nursery; Which in their kind at least, may well compare With those of th'other Sex; what Arts so rare Which are not liberally furnish'd here? Mathematicks they count within their Sphear; Arithmatick in musick couch'd you'l find; Geometry hath in their dancing shin'd. Astronomy's best read i'th' Ladies eyes; Rhetorick first from women did arise; Their Logick, Will, our Reason doth defie; There are Grammarians for Orthography. Tongues there abound. Blame not in improper Muse In Elegies still Elogies we use.

This University she grac'd, wherein To the chief Colledge Students she did win. She there proceeded highest Graduate, Mistris of Arts that are profest thereat. How great a loss th••t University O•• her bereft sustain'd! how great's the cry

Of that fam'd Colledge, which she did adorn Which knows but one long night without a morn? How dumb's their Musick and their dancing lame! Or if both's good, yet neither is the same. Those pretty Doves eyes with griefs needle seil'd, They prick their fingers till their works blood yeeld

In all the needles Curiosities Exactly she was read, view, wipe your eyes. In dancing reach'd perfection of the foot, Yet not with labour much gave her mind to't. Her Musick jars Division in this strife, Whether she sang or plaid more to the life, That subdivided, whether on the Lute Or Viol best her fingers sweet did sute. Her Hand and Ear fell out which should be best The Hands none such by all she is confest. In all her Exercises shown such Art Neglectedly concerned in each part, As if to her they all were natural, Or she to them were supernatural; And so in truth she was, her nobler Fire Unto a higher Region did aspire. This by her bearing is well figur'd out, Which rightly doth her represent devout. The Field is Argent; charge, a Chevron fable

Betwixt three Eaglets, which to view are able Her Crest, a Southern Sun, in Noon-tide glory, Thus Eagles prove their young, in Natures story

Not silken Arts, nor graceful steps, nor dresses Not modish ordering heart-ensnaring Tresses, Not Art with Nature, Instrument with Voice Can make a Female Glory to rejoyce; Nor Natures paint, but much less that of Art, By which your Dames of pleasure make their mart But a bright burnish'd mind, whose lustre vies With the Celestial Lamps, dazling all eyes.

I'th' Heavenly Academy she was verst, Knowledge there's tasting, things are not rehears•• But done, not only for a blaze profest, But Action there with constant heat is blest; In the Celestial University She now degrees of Glory takes more high.

She once blest Earth, while acting on this stag•• Now gives Heavens Book of Bliss another Page, Which gives me greater Amours, and much more I long to read it now, than e're before.

You'l say, my Muse soars not so high a flight As justly rates her worth; confest, 'tis right One cause is this, her wings with grief are wet, Or else her Lute had strain'd a nobler set.

S. B.