MARY MOLLINEUX

c. 1648-1695

Behold, ambitious lump of clay refined,

Thy epilogue; see, see to what design’d!

So soon as thou wert born, so soon as air

Affords thee breath, thy vitals to repair,

So soon as thy small feeble embrion breast

Is of an active power, unknown, possess’d;

So soon thou may’st expect the dreadful day,

When thou once more must be reduc’d to clay,

And the whole fabrick of thy body must

Again be brought to its first nothing, dust:

Then shall those eyes, those crystal eyes of thine,

Which now like sparkling diamonds do shine,

Their little chambers circular forsake,

And them to essence more obscure betake;

The tender funnel of thy nose must thence

Corroded be, and lose its smelling Sense;

And all the volume of thy face will be

So chang’d, none may thereby remember thee.

Alas, how hard a Thing

It is to bring

Into a true Subjection Flesh and Blood,

Quietly to entertain

(And not complain)

Those Exercises that attend for Good!

My Life, my Joy, my Love,

If thus thou please to prove

And exercise my poor perplexèd Mind,

Teach me to wait in Fear,

That I may learn to hear

What Trials may attend, of any Kind:

And, guarded by thy Ray,

Walk in the Way,

That leads directly to the Throne of Grace;

Where in Humility,

Poor I may be

Admitted to sit down i’ th’ heav’nly Place.

And there to thee discharge

My griefs at large,

As to a Bosom-Friend, that bears with me,

And often passes by

Faults of Infirmity:

Alas, I cannot bear too much for thee!