Page:Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Katherine Philips.djvu/209



IS true, our Life is bur a long Disease, Made up of real Pain and seeming Ease. You Stars, who these entangled Fortunes give, O tell me why It is so hard to dye, Yet such a Task to Live? If with some Pleasure we our Griefs betray, It costs us dearer than it can repay. For Time or Fortune all Things so devours; Our hopes are crost, Or else the Object lost, E'er we can call it ours.

Eader stay, it is but just; Thou dost not tread on common Dust. For underneath this Stone does lye One whose Name can never dye: Who from an Honour'd Lineage sprung, Was to another matched Young; Whose Happiness she ever sought; One Blessing was, and many brought.