Classic Poem

If beauty, birth, or friends, or vertue cou'd
Preserve from putrefaction flesh and blood,
This Lady had still liv'd; who had all those,
And all that Nature, Art or Grace bestowes
But death regards not bad or good;
All that's mortal is his food
Only here our comfort lyes,
Though death does all sorts confound,
Her better part surmounts the skies,
While her body sleeps i'th' ground.
Her soul returnes to God, from whom it came,
And her great yirtues do embalme her name