The Christians Labor and Reward, Epitaph 1 – Epitaph 6
An Epitaph on the Right Honourable, and Religious, the Lady Vere, Wife to the moſt Noble, and Valiant Lord Horatio Vere, Baron of Tilbury, who dyed, Decemb. 25. 1671. in the 90 Year of her Age.
BEneath this Marble Stone doth lye
Wonder of Age, and Piety.
So Old, ſo Good; 'twas hard to ſay
Which ſtriving in her won the day,
Or had moſt power to bow her down,
Her Age, or her Devotion.
Her Piety made the World confeſs
Old Age no bar to fruitfulneſs.
Her Age again ſo wondrous great,
Prov'd Piety never out of Date.
Well may ſhe then a wonder go,
When as, to prove her to be ſo,
The two grand Topicks do agree,
Both Scripture and Antiquity.
Thus was ſhe like (none ever more)
That Widow of above Fourſcore,
Who ſerving God both day and night,
At laſt of Jeſus gat a ſight.
Nay ſtill, like her, in Temple, ſhe
Her Saviour waits, once more to ſee.
On Her ſleeping Three days together, before ſhe dyed.
Deaths Brother, Sleep, her Senſes ty'd
Three days, and then ſhe waking dy'd.
Sleep was the Eſſay of Death's Cup,
Which firſt ſhe ſipt; then drank all up.
Thus Swimmers firſt with foot explore
The Gelid ſtream, then venture o're.
Thus Martyr, for a Tryal, firſt
Into the fire his Finger thruſt,
To ſnip a Pattern of the flame,
Then clothes his Body with the ſame.
Thus Spies to Canaans Land are ſent,
To view the Countries e're they went.
Sleep was the Mask, in which ſhe ſaw
The Promis'd Land, Incognita.
Which done, ſhe only wak't, to tell
By-ſtanders, that ſhe lik't it well.
Then, Reader, if thou wonder'ſt at
Her Three days Sleep; remember that
Three days to view the Triple-Heaven,
(One day ſpent in each Court) makes even.
But, Reader, when thou think'ſt upon
Her Third days Reſurrection,
If thou'rt amaz'd, wonder no more:
Her Saviour did ſo before.
On her dying juſt on the day of Chriſt's Nativity.
Long time ſhe ſleeping lay, but could not dye
Until the day of Chriſts Nativity.
No wonder then She ſlept and ſlumbered;
It was becauſe the Bridegroom tarried.
On Her Nobility.
Noble herſelf, more Noble, 'cauſe ſo near
To the Thrice Noble, and Victorious Vere.
That Belgick Lyon, whoſe loud fame did roar,
Heard from the German to the Britiſh ſhoar.
His Trophies ſhe was Joyntur'd in. (ſo ſay
The Lawyers) Wives ſhine by their Huſbands Ray.
See therefore now, how by his ſide ſhe ſtands,
Triumphing midſt the Graves, thoſe Netherlands.
Rather in Heaven. Thoſe only we confeſs,
Are truly call'd, Th' Ʋnited Provinces.
Charles Darby, Rector of Kediton in Suffolk.
Ʋpon the Death of the Right Honourable, Lady Mary Vere.
WHat Marble Heart can chuſe but drop a Tear,
At the ſad Funeral of the Lady Vere!
Whoſe Death's a publick loſs? Our ſpring is dry
That many an empty Ciſtern did ſupply.
God deckt her Heaven-born Soul with Gems Divine
Of various luſtre, which did make her ſhine
That all that ſtood about her ſaw the light;
She made it day, even in the darkeſt night.
Her bounteous Hand, and truly noble Heart
Did noble Gifts to multitudes impart.
She was a flowing Spring, a Mine of Treaſure.
To ſerve her Lord, and do good, was her pleaſure.
Pattern of Goodneſs, and a Pillar too,
A few ſuch loſſes might the World undo.
She gave her ſelf to Chriſt with heart and might,
And was with him in Spirit day and night;
And when his Feſtival began on Earth,
But kept in Heaven with purer joy and mirth.
She longed to be there, which made her ſing
Her Nunc Dimittis, and her Soul took wing,
To ſing her Carol among thoſe that are
Without temptation, fault, offence, or jar.
But when arriv'd, no Mortal can declare
What joys in Heaven; & what welcomes are
For this devoted Saint; whilſt here on Earth
We mix Sin with our Songs, Tears with our Mirth.
She's gone, but never periſh ſhall her Name,
Her works abide to Eternize her Fame.
Anagr. Verè mira.
Mirrour of Bleſſings! for what tongue can tell,
For Grace and Greatneſs where's her parallel.
Edward Thomas.
In obitum Nobiliſſimae lectiſſimae que Heroinae, Mariae, Illuſtriſſimi fortiſſimí que Ducis Horatii Vere Baronis de Tilbury, Viduae, Carmen Epitaphium.
NObilitas tibi Vera fuit, Prudentia Vera;
Vera tibi Pietas, & tibi Vera Fides.
Vera Dei cultrix fueras, & Vera Mariti:
Quae que nitent, aderant omnia Vera tibi.
Acciderit tandem quòd Mors tibi Vera, dolendum:
Excepto hoc, dete ſingula Vera juvant.
Simon Ford. S. T. D.
On the Death of the Right Honourable, and truly Religious, the Lady Vere.
Marie Vere
Ever I arme.
A Tribute who can here pretend
To pay, but he who hath to ſpend
Whole Indies of refined Ore,
Ready to bring out of his ſtore,
Which after all will prove to be
Too mean, yea bankrupt beggary.
See Name, Relation, Sate of Grace
Do march in correſpondent pace,
Daring all Enemies to withſtand
Her Generous Soul, or Countermand,
Its reſolution ne're to yield,
But ſtill to fight, and win the Field.
Ever I arm, and ſo do wait
My Captains Word, on Foes deceit,
Or when he muſters up his ſtrength,
Hoping to vanquiſh me at length,
Yet then I faint not, but being arm'd
Through Grace I ſtood and was not harm'd.
Here, here's a She maintain'd the Fight,
Remained Conquereſs in deſpight
Of all his Forces, till at laſt
Praiſes and Thanks were her repaſt;
Thus Faith, and Hope, and Patience,
Triumphant rode i'th' Chariot Hence.
But how ſounds this ever I arm
Suiting a Lady once i'th' Arm,
Of ſuch General whoſe ſtory
Embalms our Nations dying Glory;
Embroiders Records with his Name,
Out-bids the narrow mouth of Fame.
Gurnall diſplay thy Magazine,
Here thy whole Armour may be ſeen
Bright and well us'd, well buckled on,
A Cuiraſeer, who having won
Many a Battel, now receives
The Crown which her great Captain gives.
Maria Vere
Jam re vera.
Jam re vera feror ſuper aſtra, beata triumpho, Expectanſ que diu ſpeſ que Fideſ que ſatur.
Anthony Withers.
On the much Lamented Death, of the Worthy of all Memory, the Right Honourable, the Lady Vere.
THrough Floods of Tears my Muſe did wade,
To ſeek theſe Mourners, and this ſhade:
That ſhe, poor heart! might ſit and tell,
A grief defrauding Parable.
If in the dark ſhe chuſe to walk,
Or with Ambages mar her talk;
Or too ſlow paces ſeems to go;
Admit Cloſe Mourner ſo to do.
If Speech, or Memory, do fail,
Or if, perchance, ſhe wear her Veil,
A day, a ſize or two too long;
Wink at ſmall faults in Mourners Song.
Unto a Noble Favourite,
From Holy Land, by his own Sp'rite,
The King of Glory, and Renown,
Sent a choice Jewel of his Crown.
A Casket firſt he did prepare,
Wherein to put this Jewel rare:
Then this large token of his Love,
He dropt into it from above.
It was a cur'ous Artifice;
Of all brave works the Maſter-piece;
Moſt worthy of that skilful hand,
Which form'd all things on Sea and Land.
Its Subſtance was more pure than Gold:
More worth than thouſands, though twice told.
For kind the beſt, of fitteſt ſize;
Which much in little did comprize.
It in form a Heart reſembl'd,
A ſingle Heart, that ne're diſſembl'd;
A broken Heart, that often trembl'd,
A bleeding Heart, moſt deeply humbl'd.
Upon the Table of this Heart,
Not in proportion, but in part;
The graver by Divine impreſs,
Set th' Image of his Holineſs.
In it Twelve Pretious Stones were ſet,
(None ſuch in Princes Coronet)
In lovely order, and in place;
By three, and three, with goodly Grace.
I'th' firſt row Faith, Hope, Charity;
Next Temperance, Vertue, Purity;
Then Meekneſs, Kindneſs, Verity;
I'th' laſt, Love, Zeal, and Conſtancy.
I'th' midſt there ſtood a maſſy thing,
Fit for a Royal Spouſes Ring;
Humility men did it call,
This was the Gracing Grace of all.
Repentant Tears, to Pearls converted,
In the borders ſtood well ſorted:
Where they in greatneſs, and in ſhow,
In goodneſs too, did daily grow.
In early times it took a fall,
And thereby loſt its Graces all;
It fell into a lothſom Lake,
Which did it foul and filthy make.
Yet a great Prince did not diſdain,
To take it up and ope' a vein
In his own ſide, and with pure blood
Waſh off the ſoyl, and make it good.
This fall its Glory did impair,
This Friend its Breaches did repair;
'Cauſe mending would not ſerve, he knew,
He melted, moulded, made it new.
Then like a Glorious Sun it ſhin'd,
With Rays moſt bright, enough to blind,
Preſumptuous eyes which turn'd that way,
To ſee what 'twas out ſhin'd the day.
This Jem the owner of his Grace,
Moſt freely lent us for the ſpace,
Of ſomewhat more than Ninety Years;
So long this Pendant deck't our Ears.
But now, alas! for non-payment
Of Tribute Praiſe, an eaſie Rent,
It's fetch'd away in great diſpleaſure.
Oh what's the loſs of ſuch a treaſure?
Put off thy Vizard Mask my Muſe,
And don't our Patience ſtill abuſe;
Nor expectation higher raiſe:
But name the perſon thou doſt praiſe.
Content, for ſure I am too blame,
So long to ſmother that great Name,
Which in all Countries where it came,
Was crown'd with Honour and with Fame.
The Noble Soul deſcribed here,
Was one to God, and man moſt dear;
Who in Devotion had no peer,
The Great Good Lady Mary Vere.
EPITAPH.
THE Casket of this Jewel rare,
With deep laments we here Interre
In hallow'd ground, which yet grows proud,
Of purer Earth to be the ſhroud.
And thou fair ſhrine, in whoſe cloſe womb,
This Holy Relick we intomb;
Preſerv't with care, and on it try
What may be done by Chimiſtry.
That when the Trump ſaith, dead ariſe,
Thou mayſt ſend forth thy wealthy prize;
Ev'ry Particle well calcin'd,
And every duſt double refin'd.
Richard Howlett.
FINIS.
End of the text · William Gurnall, The Christians Labor and Reward (1672)