Below this marble monument is laid All that heaven wants of this celestial maid. Preserve, O sacred tomb! thy trust consign'd; The mould was made on purpose for the mind: And she would lose, if, at the latter day, One atom could be mix'd of other clay. Such were the features of her heavenly face, Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace: So faultless was the frame, as if the whole Had been an emanation of the soul: 10 Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd And like a picture shone, in glass anneal'd. Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light: Too piercing, else, to be sustain'd by sight. Each thought was visible that roll'd within: As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen. And Heaven did this transparent veil provide, Because she had no guilty thought to hide. All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies: For marriage, though it sullies not, it dyes. 20 High though her wit, yet humble was her mind: As if she could not, or she would not find How much her worth transcended all her kind. Yet she had learn'd so much of heaven below, That, when arrived, she scarce had more to know: But only to refresh the former hint, And read her Maker in a fairer print. So pious, as she had no time to spare For human thoughts, but was confined to prayer. Yet in such charities she pass'd the day, 30 'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray. A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows, Which passion could but curl, not discompose. A female softness, with a manly mind: A daughter duteous, and a sister kind: In sickness patient, and in death resign'd. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 39: This Lady is interred in the Abbey-church. Her name was Mary Frampton. She died in 1698.] * * * * * XIII. EPITAPH ON MRS MARGARET PASTON, OF BURNINGHAM IN NORFOLK. So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet, So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit, Require at least an age in one to meet. In her they met; but long they could not stay, 'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay. Heaven's image was in her so well express'd, Her very sight upbraided all the rest; Too justly ravish'd from an age like this, Now she is gone, the world is of a piece. * * * * * XIV. ON THE MONUMENT OF THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.[40]