







 
   
     
       
         On the untimely and much lamented death of Mrs. Anne Gray the daughter of the learnedly accomplisht Doctor Nicholas Gray of Tunbridge in Kent, who dyed of the small pox.
         Holland, Samuel, gent.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A86460 of text R211929 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Thomason 669.f.20[51]). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A86460
         Wing H2440
         Thomason 669.f.20[51]
         ESTC R211929
         99870596
         99870596
         163468
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A86460)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 163468)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 247:669f20[51])
      
       
         
           
             On the untimely and much lamented death of Mrs. Anne Gray the daughter of the learnedly accomplisht Doctor Nicholas Gray of Tunbridge in Kent, who dyed of the small pox.
             Holland, Samuel, gent.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             s.n.,
             [London :
             1657]
          
           
             Verse - "Scarce have I dry'd my cheeks, but griefs invite".
             Imprint from Wing.
             Signed at end: Samuel Holland.
             Annotation on Thomason copy: "March 24. 1656"; "March 24th 1656".
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Gray, Anne, d. 1656 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Elegiac poetry, English.
        
      
    
       A86460  R211929  (Thomason 669.f.20[51]).  civilwar no On the untimely and much lamented death of Mrs. Anne Gray, the daughter of the learnedly accomplisht Doctor Nicholas Gray of Tunbridge in Ke Holland, Samuel, gent.  1657    622 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A This text  has no known defects that were recorded as gap elements at the time of transcription.  
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           ON
           THE
           UNTIMELY
           AND
           MUCH
           LAMENTED
           DEATH
           OF
           Mrs
           
             Anne
             Gray
             ,
          
           the
           Daughter
           of
           the
           Learnedly
           accomplisht
           Doctor
           
             Nicholas
             Gray
          
           of
           
             Tunbridge
          
           in
           
             Kent
             ,
          
           Who
           dyed
           of
           the
           Small
           Pox
           .
        
         
           AN
           ELEGIE
           .
        
         
           SCarce
           have
           I
           dry'd
           my
           Cheeks
           ,
           but
           Griefs
           invite
        
         
           Again
           my
           Eyes
           to
           weep
           ,
           my
           Hand
           to
           write
           ,
        
         
           Which
           still
           return
           with
           greater
           force
           ,
           being
           more
        
         
           In
           weight
           and
           number
           then
           they
           were
           before
           .
        
         
           Mechanick
           Griefs
           are
           eloquent
           ,
           their
           sound
        
         
           Beats
           through
           the
           streets
           ,
           and
           in
           that
           spacious
           Round
        
         
           Salutes
           each
           strangers
           eare
           :
           Nor
           can
           so
           high
        
         
           And
           wide
           a
           Ruine
           in
           one
           Family
        
         
           Contracted
           keep
           ;
           but
           seeking
           farther
           bounds
           ,
        
         
           Fills
           every
           brest
           with
           its
           afflicting
           sounds
           .
        
         
           Youth
           met
           with
           Beauty
           weeps
           ;
           then
           who
           forbears
        
         
           To
           Griefe's
           Exchequer
           to
           bring
           in
           his
           tears
           ?
        
         
           Het
           that
           such
           tributes
           doth
           not
           now
           returne
           ,
        
         
           Knows
           neither
           Vertue
           ,
           nor
           for
           whom
           we
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           SHE
           ,
           whose
           unequall'd
           ,
           and
           whose
           rich
           desert
        
         
           Did
           take
           possession
           in
           each
           knowing
           heart
           ;
        
         
           Whose
           life
           was
           such
           ,
           it
           may
           be
           well
           deny'd
           ,
        
         
           That
           she
           did
           ever
           ill
           ,
           but
           that
           she
           dy'd
           .
        
         
           SHE
           ,
           like
           another
           Nature
           ,
           but
           whose
           Name
        
         
           Gave
           life
           to
           Beauty
           ,
           and
           a
           voyce
           to
           Fame
           ;
        
         
           SHE
           ,
           whose
           pure
           worth
           was
           such
           ,
           whom
           gone
           ,
           that
           even
        
         
           Heav'n
           would
           lament
           with
           many
           a
           tear
           ,
           if
           Heaven
        
         
           Had
           not
           assum'd
           her
           ,
           who
           in
           all
           she
           did
           ,
        
         
           Both
           Grace
           in
           it
           and
           Innocence
           were
           hid
           ,
        
         
           Is
           hence
           ascended
           ,
           while
           our
           Griefs
           infer
        
         
           Their
           moyst
           Complaints
           ,
           and
           envy
           Heav'n
           ,
           not
           Her.
           
        
         
           Death
           ,
           who
           did
           boast
           his
           high
           Prerogative
           ,
        
         
           And
           hourely
           Conquests
           over
           all
           alive
           ,
        
         
           Did
           here
           begin
           to
           startle
           ,
           and
           did
           seeme
        
         
           To
           feare
           her
           Beauties
           would
           now
           conquer
           him
           :
        
         
           Therefore
           a
           danger
           to
           prevent
           so
           nigh
           ,
        
         
           Drew
           forth
           at
           once
           all
           his
           Artillery
           ,
        
         
           And
           so
           direct
           the
           Battery
           was
           laid
           ,
        
         
           So
           full
           the
           Charge
           ,
           so
           fast
           the
           Case-shot
           play'd
           ,
        
         
           That
           the
           poor
           Body
           fell
           upon
           the
           place
           ,
        
         
           A
           thousand
           wounds
           being
           printed
           on
           her
           face
           :
        
         
           Yet
           spight
           of
           Death
           ,
           and
           Fate
           ,
           we
           must
           imply
           ,
        
         
           That
           she
           her selfe
           was
           well
           content
           to
           dye
           ;
        
         
           For
           in
           this
           sad
           and
           tedious
           vale
           of
           Teares
           ,
        
         
           Ere
           she
           had
           hardly
           numbred
           eighteene
           yeeres
           ,
        
         
           She
           had
           done
           all
           her
           businesse
           ,
           and
           made
           even
        
         
           With
           Earth
           ,
           and
           drawn
           up
           her
           accounts
           for
           Heaven
           .
        
         
           Rich
           in
           her
           Sexes
           value
           ,
           good
           mens
           praise
           ,
        
         
           And
           full
           of
           all
           could
           be
           desir'd
           ,
           but
           dayes
           ;
        
         
           Where
           after
           her
           we
           sigh
           our
           soules
           ,
           the
           while
        
         
           She
           counts
           our
           teares
           ,
           and
           with
           a
           pittying
           smile
        
         
           Beholds
           our
           following
           Love
           ;
           and
           now
           no
           Drums
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           voyce
           of
           Cannons
           ,
           nor
           of
           Trumpets
           comes
        
         
           To
           vex
           her
           quiet
           eare
           ;
           nor
           any
           noyse
        
         
           Dares
           once
           approach
           to
           interrupt
           her
           joyes
           ;
        
         
           But
           Health
           and
           Strength
           doe
           court
           her
           ,
           and
           the
           treasure
        
         
           Of
           endlesse
           light
           ,
           and
           unrepented
           pleasure
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           the
           Blessings
           which
           faire
           Peace
           doth
           bring
        
         
           Sent
           for
           so
           oft
           by
           my
           late
           Lord
           the
           King
        
         
           
             Her
             Epitaph
             .
          
           
             WOuldst
             thou
             know
             who
             lies
             here
             ,
             under
          
           
             This
             cold
             Marble
             ?
             read
             ,
             and
             wonder
             :
          
           
             For
             body
             ,
             beauty
             ,
             feature
             ,
             sense
             ,
          
           
             This
             was
             the
             Maid
             of
             Excellence
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             early
             Soule
             soone
             understood
          
           
             And
             practic'd
             all
             that
             men
             call
             Good
             :
          
           
             And
             wondring
             threescore
             yeares
             should
             stay
          
           
             For
             what
             so
             soone
             she
             bore
             away
             ,
          
           
             She
             sudden
             unto
             Heaven
             did
             fly
             ,
          
           
             Asham'd
             of
             dull
             Mortality
             .
          
        
         
           
             SAMUEL
             HOLLAND
             .
          
        
      
    
    

