AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF QUEENE ANNE. NOE; not a quatch, sad poets; doubt you, То say, Shee's dead, that was your muse? And if 't be possible, deare eyes, The famous Universityes, If both your eyes bee matches, sleepe; Or, if you will be loyall, weepe: For-beare the press, there's none will looke Why should you tell the world what witts Verses, which he will turne to prose, Nor, for an epithite that failes, Bite off your unpoëticke nailes. Unjust! Why should you in these vaines, Know henceforth, that griefes vitall part I 2 And verses that are studied Mourne for themselves, not for the dead. Heark, the Queenes epitaph shall bee For lines in bloud cutt out are stronger That is begotten, and not made. "Her father, brother, husband,....kinges; While Britaine, Denmarke, Rheine endure: And as a straying starr intic't And governd those wise-men to Christ, Ev'n soe a herauld-starr this yeare A starr which did not to our nation Portend her death, but her translation : For when such harbingers are seene, God crownes a saint, not kills a queene. VINCENT CORBET, WHO, from causes which I have not conclusively ascertained, assumed the name of Poynter, was one of those by whose experience and information sir Hugh Platt, at a period when the horticultural arts in this country were in their infancy, was enabled to publish his "Garden of Eden." The beautiful "Epitaph" of Ben Jonson, and the following "Elegy," are high testimonials of his amiable and virtuous disposition. His father's name I have not learned; but his mother, whose name was Rose, was buried at Twickenham, September the 13th, 1611, and the register of the same parish proves that her son pursued her path the 29th April, 1619. Among other legacies, he bequeathed to the poor of Twickenham forty shillings, to be paid |