Classic Poem

As when the ancient world by reason Liv'd,
The Asian Monarchs' deaths were never griev'd;
Their glorious Lives made all their subjects call
Their rites a Triumph, not a Funerall:
So still the good are Princes, and their fate
Envites us not to weep, but imitate
Nature intends a progress, and each stage
Whereby weak man creeps to succeeding age,
Ripens him for that change to which hee's made,
Where th'active Soule is in her centre layd.
And since none stript of infancy complaine,
'Cause 'tis both their necessity and gaine:
So age and death by slow approaches come,
But by that Just inevitable doome
By which the soule, her drossy clog once gone,
Puts on perfection, and resumes her own
Since then we mourn a happy soule, O! why
Disturb we her with erring piety?
Who's so ennamour'd on the beauteous ground,
When with the Autumn's Livery hung round,
As to deny a sickle to his graine,
And not undress the teeming Earth again?
Fruits grow for use, mankind is born to dy;
And both fates have the same necessity
Then grieve no more, sad relatives, but learn;
Sigh not, but proffit by your Just concerne.
Read over her Live's volume: wise and good,
Not 'cause she must be so, but 'cause she would.
To chosen vertue still a constant Friend,
She saw the times which chang'd, but did not mend;
And as some are so civill to the sun,
They'd fix his beams, and make the Earth to run:
So she unmov'd beheld the angry Fate
Which tore a church, and overthrew a State:
Still durst be good, and own that noble truth
To crown her age, which had adorn'd her youth.
Great without pride! a soule which still could be
Humble and high, full of calme Majesty
She kept true 'State within, and could not buy
Her satisfaction with her charity.
Fortunes or birth ne're rais'd her mind, which stood,
Not on her being rich, but doing good:
Obleig'd the world, but yet would scorn to be
Pay'd with requitalls, thanks or Vanity
How oft did she what all the wise adore,
Make the poore happy with her usefull store?
So generall was her bounty that she gave
Equallity to all before the Grave;
By severall meanes she different persons ty'd,
Who by her goodness onely were ally'd
Her vertue was her temper, not her Fit;
Fear'd nothing but the crimes which some commit;
Scorn'd those dark arts which pass for wisedom now,
Nor to a meane ignoble thing could bow.
And her vast prudence had no other end,
But to forgive a foe, endeare a friend:
To use but slight the world, and fix'd above,
Shine down in beams of Piety and Love.
Why should we then by poore unjust complaint
Prove envious sinners 'cause she is a Saint?
Close then the Monument! and not a Teare
That may prophane her Ashes now appeare:
For her best obsequys are that we be
Prudent and good, noble and sweet, as She