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Poem by Thomas Carew


Epitaph for Maria Wentworth


And here the precious dust is laid;
Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betray'd.

Else the soul grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sin,
And so was hatch'd a cherubin.

In height, it soar'd to God above;
In depth, it did to knowledge move,
And spread in breadth to general love.

Before, a pious duty shin'd
To parents, courtesy behind;
On either side an equal mind.

Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
To servants kind, to friendship clear,
To nothing but herself severe.

So, though a virgin, yet a bride
To ev'ry grace, she justified
A chaste polygamy, and died.

Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
We owe this world, where virtue must,
Frail as our flesh, crumble to dust. 



Thomas Carew


Thomas Carew's other poems:
  1. Secrecy Protested
  2. Celia Beeding, To The Surgeon
  3. I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair
  4. A Divine Mistress
  5. Murdering Beauty


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