Start not my Muse, what Paradox is this,
That the same cause works both my Woe and Bliss?
Here lies my bliss, a more than brutish Wife,
By her own Butch’ring hands bereft of life.
My Woe lies here, my murder’d Joy, Alas!
What Wicked hand durst bring this Ill to pass?
Hells consistory sate within that brest,
Which sent my Love to her Eternal rest.
How happy had I been, had the Blest Powers,
Enlarg’d her Minutes, and have made them Hours.