Hēsychia Christianou, or, A Christian's acquiescence in all the products of divine providence opened in a sermon, preached at Cottesbrook in Northampton-Shire, April the 16, 1644, at the interment of the Right Honourable, and eminently pious lady, the Lady Elizabeth Langham, wife to Sir James Langham Kt. / by Simon Ford ...

Upon the Much deplored DEATH Of the TRULY RELIGIOUS And RIGHT HONOURABLE The Lady ELISABETH LANGHAM.

Epicedium intempestivè maestum.

THough Fun'ral Rites be done, The Sermon past; The Corps interr'd, the blessed Soul at rest: Cancel not Homage, though it speak so late; This Subjects-worth, ne're speaks it out of date. Nor can plain Dialect implead that Verse, Inflam'd with Rhetorick, from such an Hearse; Speak to the height of worth, and when we can Expresse no more, Her Name's the Vatican: But more pure Lines, and Lectures, here do lie Urn'd in this Ectype of Divinitie, Than Volumes now can teach, or mortals find, Wait 'till you come to Heaven, then read her mind. Transcribe we may, the Jewels Casque a little, But to the Pearl it self, bequeath no Tittle; Our muddy thoughts, would wrong what grace now crowns And work, instead of Plaudits, shameful frowns. Look not upon Seraphick-Spirit in Throne, 'Till tears be quite dissolved, Then look on, Which will not be (I think) 'till that time come, That man needs write no Epicedium.

Though at this sacred Shrine, some pious pay Of Tears devoted to that solemn day Have offered been, and some spent all their store; Yet, Time have had since then to gather more, Stock their Eie-vessels, in each Channel'd Vein With drops in Zeal, to weep her o're again. And must that stand for all? No, when that's gone To Ages; say, the mourning's but begun; When the salt-springs of Nat'ral tears are dry'd Up; And (in course) the mourning's laid aside; (Which (as to Fate) hath seldom been from hence, 'S if Heav'n had fix'd Blacks for Inheritance.) Despair not of an Artful Train, whose Hearts, In sable-sadnesse, will lament their Parts; And if that fail, the Rural sort will sing Their doleful Anthems to this gratious Thing. If any Bankrupt be, of Grace, and sorrow, Make bold (of those who are full stockt) to borrow; Trade in some tears and sighs; here such worth lies, To which thou ow'st the tribute of thine eies, That when thy self art dead, there may remain Some, that for this, will pay thee tears again. Let's not delay the time, where have ye laid This pretious Piece? Is this the vaulted shade Famous for what it holds? This is that Tomb, Whose ev'ry single dust in its cold Womb, Speaks louder worth, and is of value more, Than Mines of Potasie, and Ganges shore: Far Richer, is this Odour, than had all The Eastern Gardens spic'd Her Funeral; And to the consecrated ground, we'l add This, that her body here lies buried. Light up a Torch, whose beams may blaze as far, (As doth the portent or strange bearded-star)

To summon ev'ry Eie to come and see How Heav'n hath acted us, to Tragedie. But stay a while, until your thoughts can bring Consigned goodnesse for an offering; First read this Table, then unlock your eies, And drop your spirits into Elegies; So vast, so good, so fair, so full a Theam, Calls for a Cherubs quill, or Phoebus beam.

Tabella incondite sculpta.

Draw not too nigh, least you offend those Laws, Wherewith this Sepulcher affection awes; Dread to molest that sacred Ghost, whose soul Abjur'd the very name of Vain and Foul. What rude attempter ever durst advance Her presence, without check of countenance? The sliest stratagem, that Vice could plot, Felt the strong working of her Antidote. If in discourse, the least mistrust did lie, She stopt the rise with quick antilogie. Vertue stood sentinel, at ev'ry sense, Repulst assaults with Divine influence. They who did read her Phisnomy aright, Could not but read true Honours Margarite. Devote in Closet, yet in Chamber free To sweet Converse; Low in her high'st degree: Nothing indeed in her extract did shine, But what was truly noble and Divine. To run all Graces o're in short transact, Were, but t'epitomize, her fuller act; To speak them one by one, were but in vain, The project of whose soul's the Counterpain. She was the Cittadel, and center'd all That we can either Good, or Gracious call.

Nature, Art, Grace contesting; gently striv'd Which of them had her more embelished; At length admiring all, they cease the strift For her, in whom all had their equal thrift. This threefold Fabrick, so compos'd in one, Man could not judge which had Dominion; The last, was that indeed, which seem'd to sway, And Crown her morals, to her dying day. Clotilda's dead, and so's Eudoxia, Mariamne likewise, and Pulcheria, Choice Ladies in their daies: without offence, (And fawning laid aside) here lies the sence, And meaning of them all; In finer mint By how much more, there's truth of Vertue in't. Mirrour of Ladies, Virgin, Wife, and Child, For ev'ry stage so congruously compil'd; 'Twas hard to tell, which was her nobler part, She acted all with such prudential Art. Flattery she hated, as that base result, Of worthlesse spirits; truth was her grand consult. (If Priest and People, do not flatter some, First falls a frown, then next their day of doom) What, some the Crest, she counted Pest of honour, They must speak truth, that any thing spake on her: Her beauty was her own; Nor needed more, Her amorous dressings, were for inward store. She left the gaudy Plumes and Paints, for those Decoy's, that have no other worth than clothes And face, like Pageants to be seen and shown, With those oft borrowed trappings, not their own. Let others trim their out-sides, she made sure To polish that, which Heav'n was toimmure. As she thus liv'd, so thus she left her breath, Making her dying life, her living death.

Tabellae Catastrophe sive Corollarium Elegiacum. Ask ye, why so small Grace i'th' world is found? 'Tis because so much Grace is here intomb'd; Surely she scarce had Peer, (nor scarce will have) But those who went before her to the Grave. 'Twas she made up the sacred number seven; All Saints on earth together, now Saints in Heav'n. What more contributes Glory upon earth Than t' nurse a Constellation every birth? And what more calms the spirit, when passions high Than signals, which make good this Charity. Wrong not my Faith; their honour'd Lord, though dead, Lives t' wear this seven-star'd Coronet on his head. Well, since to Heav'n, they all have made such hast, Let the rest longer stay, but go at last Where Hierarchies, will welcome them, with more Joy, than with grief, we can their losse deplore.

Epitaphium succincte digestum.

Tears are the common pledge, then to this fall Bring tears of mirrhe and balm, or none at all. Acquit the debt we cannot, for here lies That which we lost, but what we cannot prize. Disburse what store we can, the more we may And pay that o're again, we paid to day; Deposite to the utmost drop, yet still There's more behind, for what's invalu'ble: A richer Piece on earth, could we not find, Were it the pensil could pourtray the mind. But since with that, our eies can't here be blest, We'l draw the curtain; leave her to her rest.

Sic ex animo defleuit. Jo. Rosse.