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         B.
      
       
         
           1683
        
      
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         B01663
         Wing B2
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.3[67]
         99885198
         ocm99885198
         182552
         
           
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             An elegy on the most accomplish'd virgin Madam Elizabeth Hurne, who departed this life on the 27th. of July 1683.
             B.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             Printed by N.T.,
             [London] :
             anno Dom. 1983 [i.e. 1683]
          
           
             Signed at end: B.
             Verse: "Thou most inexorable tyrant death ..."
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Hurne, Elizabeth, d. 1683 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           AN
           ELEGY
           On
           the
           Most
           Accomplish'd
           VIRGIN
           Madam
           ELIZABETH
           HURNE
           ,
           Who
           Departed
           this
           Life
           on
           
             the
             27th
             .
             of
             July
             1683.
             
          
        
         
           
             THou
             most
             Inexorable
             Tyrant
             Death
             ,
          
           
             Who
             do'st
             deprive
             all
             Humane
             kind
             of
             Breath
             ;
          
           
             
               Whose
               Partial-Dart
               do's
               pierce
               the
               Hearts
               of
               all
               ,
            
             
               And
               ne'r
               regarding
               who
               it
               is
               does
               Fall
               ,
            
             
               Do'st
               Mow
               down
               all
               Mankind
               in
               General
               :
            
          
           
             
               The
               Good
               and
               Bad
               are
               all
               a
               Case
               to
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               The
               Wise-mans
               Fate
               and
               Fool
               's
               alike
               we
               see
               ;
            
             
               For
               all
               are
               subject
               to
               thy
               Tyranny
               .
            
          
           
             Let
             Youth
             and
             Beauty
             both
             of
             them
             Combine
             ;
          
           
             Nay
             to
             these
             two
             we
             'll
             Wit
             and
             Virtue
             Joyn
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             in
             their
             Superlative
             Degree
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             sha'n't
             the
             least
             Remorce
             obtain
             from
             Thee
             :
          
           
             Witness
             one
             Fact
             Thou
             Perpetrat'st
             of
             late
             ,
          
           
             (
             Oh!
             the
             Vicissitude
             of
             Cruel
             Fate
             :
             )
          
           
             
               A
               Fact
               Atchiev'd
               on
               this
               our
               British
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               Which
               if
               the
               Wings
               of
               Fame
               so
               far
               has
               bore
               ,
            
             
               It
               is
               Deplor'd
               its
               Spacious
               Turf
               all
               o'er
               :
            
          
           
             Fair
             Madam
             Hurne
             ,
             (
             in
             whom
             Concenter'd
             were
          
           
             The
             Graces
             all
             ,
             )
             whereby
             she
             did
             appear
             ,
          
           
             The
             very
             Star
             of
             this
             our
             Hemisphere
             :
          
           
             Is
             Dead
             ,
             this
             most
             Divine
             and
             Spotless
             Maid
             ;
          
           
             With
             Grief
             ,
             I
             speak
             't
             ,
             in
             Death's
             Gold
             Bed
             is
             laid
             :
          
           
             But
             tho'
             she
             's
             gone
             ,
             her
             Name
             doth
             still
             remain
          
           
             Pure
             ,
             Undefil'd
             ,
             without
             a
             Spot
             or
             Stain
             ,
          
           
             And
             shall
             Eternal
             Veneration
             gain
             .
          
           
             But
             Oh!
             my
             Genius
             faints
             ,
             when
             Her
             I
             Name
             ;
          
           
             Divine
             Apollo
             ,
             since
             my
             Muse
             is
             lame
             ,
          
           
             Transform
             my
             Pen
             into
             the
             Tongue
             of
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Her
             Meritorious
             Virtues
             to
             Proclaim
             .
          
        
         
           
             While
             yet
             on
             Earth
             ,
             she
             might
             be
             said
             in
             Heaven
             ,
          
           
             To
             which
             her
             Thoughts
             Eternally
             were
             given
             :
          
           
             And
             tho'
             she
             locally
             remained
             here
             ,
          
           
             Her
             better
             Part
             ,
             her
             Mind
             was
             ever
             there
             .
          
           
             
               As
               for
               her
               Church
               ,
               she
               most
               Discreetly
               chose
               ,
            
             
               That
               which
               the
               Pope
               and
               Presbyter
               oppose
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               its
               Bosom
               took
               her
               soft
               Repose
               .
            
          
           
             Her
             Dear
             Indulgent
             Mother
             whom
             she
             Lov'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             could
             not
             brook
             to
             hear
             her
             Disapprov'd
             ;
          
           
             But
             to
             her
             Loyal
             Precepts
             fix'd
             her
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             And
             ne'r
             to
             Factious
             Principles
             Enclin'd
             :
          
           
             
               Altho'
               the
               Vipers
               Pester'd
               her
               a
               while
               ,
            
             
               Vipers
               far
               worse
               than
               those
               of
               Fruitful
               Nile
               ,
            
             
               Worse
               than
               the
               Curs'd
               Dissembling
               Crocodile
               :
            
          
           
             I
             mean
             those
             men
             ,
             who
             by
             Denomination
             ,
          
           
             The
             World
             call
             Whigs
             ,
             but
             I
             the
             Pest
             o
             th'
             Nation
             :
          
           
             These
             all
             their
             little
             Arguments
             produce
             ,
          
           
             In
             hopes
             they
             might
             her
             Loyalty
             Seduce
             ;
          
           
             But
             as
             a
             Rock
             fix'd
             by
             the
             Ocean
             side
             ,
          
           
             (
             Each
             towring
             wave
             does
             threaten
             with
             her
             Pride
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             it
             meant
             her
             Center
             to
             divide
             ,
             )
          
           
             Do's
             Laugh
             to
             see
             the
             sordid
             Ocean
             Roar
             ,
          
           
             And
             than
             a
             Spoonful
             values
             it
             no
             more
             :
          
           
             
               Even
               so
               my
               Female
               Champion
               like
               a
               Rock
               ,
            
             
               Did
               Unconcern'd
               sustain
               the
               mighty
               Shock
               ,
            
             
               And
               Baffl'd
               both
               the
               Shepherd
               and
               the
               Flock
               :
            
          
           
             Or
             like
             St.
             George
             who
             made
             the
             Dragon
             fall
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             his
             Sword
             the
             hideous
             Monster
             Sprall
             ;
          
           
             So
             she
             with
             Reason
             did
             Confound
             them
             all
             ,
          
           
             In
             fine
             ,
             kind
             Heaven
             and
             Nature
             did
             bestow
          
           
             All
             the
             Rich
             Blessings
             that
             are
             here
             below
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             her
             Sacred
             Head
             ,
             and
             meant
             that
             she
             ,
          
           
             Should
             be
             the
             Phoenix
             of
             our
             Britany
             :
          
           
             
               Who
               Heaven
               Observing
               so
               Divinely
               clear
               ,
            
             
               Judg'd
               her
               Unworthy
               any
               Mortal
               here
               ;
            
             
               Therefore
               Advanc'd
               her
               to
               an
               higher
               Sphere
               :
            
          
           
             There
             her
             Transcendent
             Lustre
             to
             Display
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             upper
             Rank
             of
             Saints
             Enjoy
             ,
          
           
             An
             Happy
             ,
             Joyful
             and
             Eternal
             Day
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           EPITAPH
           .
        
         
           MOurn
           Reader
           ,
           Mourn
           ,
           for
           in
           this
           
             Marble
             Tomb
          
           ,
        
         
           Is
           Sleeping
           layn
           until
           the
           day
           of
           Doom
           ,
        
         
           The
           Sacred
           Ashes
           of
           the
           Lovely
           Hurne
           ;
        
         
           Who
           chose
           this
           Place
           whilst
           Living
           ,
           for
           her
           Urne
           :
        
         
           But
           hold
           kind
           Reader
           ,
           to
           Asswage
           thy
           Grief
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           afford
           thy
           Anxious
           Thoughts
           Relief
           ;
        
         
           
             Know
             ,
             that
             altho'
             her
             Body
             here
             doth
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Her
             Soul
             by
             Angels
             wafted
             is
             on
             High
             ,
          
           
             And
             Treads
             the
             upper
             Region
             of
             the
             Sky
             ;
          
        
         
           Where
           there
           is
           neither
           Envy
           ,
           Grief
           or
           Pain
           ,
        
         
           But
           all
           in
           Bliss
           Ineffable
           Eternally
           Remain
           .
        
         
           
             B.
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Printed
           by
           
             N.T.
             Anno
             Dom.
          
           1983.
           
        
      
    
  

