When in mid-Aire, the Golden Trump shall sound, To raise the Nations under ground; When in the Valley of _Jehosaphat_, The Judging God shall close the Book of Fate; And there the last Assizes keep, For those who Wake, and those who sleep; When ratling Bones together fly From the four Corners of the Skie, When Sinews o're the Skeletons are spread, Those cloath'd with Flesh, and Life inspires the Dead; The Sacred Poets first shall hear the Sound, } And formost from the Tomb shall bound: } For they are cover'd with the lightest Ground } And streight, with in-born Vigour, on the Wing, Like mounting Larkes, to the New Morning sing. There _Thou_, Sweet Saint, before the Quire shalt go, As Harbinger of Heav'n, the Way to show, The Way which thou so well hast learn'd below. =J. Dryden.= The Epitaph Engraved on her TOMB. P. M. S. Annæ Killigrew, Doctoris KILLIGREW Filiæ, _Quæ in ipso Ætatis flore Obiit._ JUNII 16. 1685. _Heu jacet, fato victa, Quæ stabat ubique victrix Forma, ingenio, religione; Plura collegerat in se Unâ, Quàm vel sparsa mireris in omnibus! Talem quis pingat, nisi penicillo quod tractavit?_ _Aut quis canat, nisi Poëta sui similis? Cum tanta sciret, hoc Unum ignoravit, Quanta, nempe, esset; Aut si norit. Mirare Modestiam, Tantis incorruptam dotibus. Laudes meruisse satis illi fuit, Has ne vel audiret, laudatores omnes fugerat, Contenta paterno Lare, Dum & sibi Aula patebat adulatrix. Mundum sapere an potuit, Quæ ab infantia Christum sapuerat? Non modo semper Virgo, Sed & virginum Exemplar. Gentis suæ Decus, Ævi Splendor, Sexus Miraculum. Nullâ Vertute inferior cuiquam, Cuilibet superior multâ. Optimi Deliciæ patris, Etiam numerosâ optimâque prole fortunatissimi: Priorem tamen invidit nemo_, (_Seu frater, seu soror_) _Quin potius coluere omnes, omnibus suavem & officiosam, Amorisque commune Vinculum & Centrum. Vix ista credes. Hanc si nescieris; Credet majora qui scierit._ _Abi Viator, & Plange: Si eam plangi oporteat, Cui, tam piè morienti, Vel Coelites plauserint._ The Same Turned into English. By Death, alas, here Conquer'd lies, She who from All late bore the Prize In Beauty, Wit, Vertue Divine: In whom those Graces did combine, Which we admir'd in others see, When they but singly scatter'd be! Who her, _so Great_, can paint beside, The Pencil her own Hand did guide? What Verse can celebrate her Fame, But such as She herself did frame?