In whose heroic breast, as in their Sphere,
40All graces of your sex concentred were.
Thus take I my long farewell of that art,
Fit only glorious actions to impart;
That art wherewith our crosses we beguile,
And make them in harmonious numbers smile:
Since you are gone, this holds no further use
Whose virtue and desert inspir'd my Muse,
O may she in your ashes buried be,
Whilst I myself become the Elegy.