Ah, cruel Heaven! to snatch so soon away
Her for whose life, had we had time to pray,
With thousand vows and tears we should have sought
That sad decree’s suspension to have wrought. 
But we, alas! no whisper of her pain
Heard, till ’twas sin to wish her here again. 
That horrid word, at once, like lightning spread,
Struck all our ears—­The Lady Rich is dead! 
Heart-rending news! and dreadful to those few
Who her resemble, and her steps pursue;
That death should license have to rage among
The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young! 20

The Paphian queen from that fierce battle borne,
With gored hand, and veil so rudely torn,
Like terror did among th’immortals breed,
Taught by her wound that goddesses may bleed.

All stand amazed! but beyond the rest
th’heroic dame whose happy womb she bless’d,[2]
Moved with just grief, expostulates with Heaven,
Urging the promise to th’obsequious given,
Of longer life; for ne’er was pious soul
More apt t’obey, more worthy to control. 30
A skilful eye at once might read the race
Of Caledonian monarchs in her face,
And sweet humility; her look and mind
At once were lofty, and at once were kind. 
There dwelt the scorn of vice, and pity too,
For those that did what she disdain’d to do;
So gentle and severe, that what was bad,
At once her hatred and her pardon had.

Gracious to all; but where her love was due, 39
So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true,
That a bold hand as soon might hope to force
The rolling lights of heaven, as change her course.

Some happy angel, that beholds her there,
Instruct us to record what she was here! 
And when this cloud of sorrow’s overblown,
Through the wide world we’ll make her graces known. 
So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast,
That all our art and power of speech is waste. 
Here passion sways, but there the Muse shall raise
Eternal monuments of louder praise. 50

There our delight, complying with her fame,
Shall have occasion to recite thy name,
Fair Saccharissa!—­and now only fair! 
To sacred friendship we’ll an altar rear
(Such as the Romans did erect of old),
Where, on a marble pillar, shall be told
The lovely passion each to other bare,
With the resemblance of that matchless pair. 
Narcissus to the thing for which he pined
Was not more like than yours to her fair mind, 60
Save that she graced the several parts of life,
A spotless virgin, and a faultless wife. 
Such was the sweet converse ’twixt her and you,
As that she holds with her associates now.