John Beaumont (1583-1627)
To the Memory of Elizabeth Nevell
A nymph is dead, mild, virtuous, young, and fair;
Death never counts by days, or months, or years:
Oft in his sight the infant old appears,
And to his earthly mansion must repair.
Why should our sighs disturb the quiet air?
For when the flood of Time to ruin bears,
No beauty can prevail, nor parents' tears.
When life is gone, we of the flesh despair,
Yet still the happy soul immortal lives
In Heaven, as we with pious hope conceive;
And to the Maker endless praises gives,
That she so soon this loathsome world might leave.
We judge that glorious spirit doubly blest,
Which from short life ascends t'eternal rest.
The Book of Sorrow