An Epitaph on her Self.
When I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse,
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.
An ODE.
Arise my Dove, from mid'st of Pots arise, Thy sully'd Habitation leave, To Dust no longer cleave, Unworthy they of Heaven that will not view the Skies. Thy native Beauty re-assume, Prune each neglected Plume, Till more than Silver white, Then burnisht Gold more bright, Thus ever ready stand to take thy Eternal Flight.