Epitaph - On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke

Underneath this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair and learn'd, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Marble piles let no man raise
To her name: for after days
Some kind woman born as she,
Reading this, like Niobe
Shall turn marble, and become
Both her mourner and her tomb.

William Browne

William Browne (1590–1645) was an English poet from Tavistock, Devon. Best known for his pastoral poetry, Browne's notable works include 'Britannia's Pastorals'. His poetry reflects the influence of Edmund Spenser and his themes often revolve around nature, rural life, and patriotic sentiments. Although his work was not widely known during his time, it has since gained recognition for its lyrical quality and depiction of English countryside traditions.

William Browne

A Pleasant Grove

William Browne, Simple Poetry

Visions - Sonnet - 2

William Browne, Simple Poetry

The Charm

William Browne, Simple Poetry

Visions - Sonnet - 4

William Browne, Simple Poetry

English

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Epitaph - In Obitum M S, X° Maij, 1614

May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,
        Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring,
        Mine only died.

W. B.

William Browne

Epitaph On The Lady Mary Villiers

The Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone; with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, Reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a tear;
Or if thyself possess a gem
As dear to thee, as this to them,
Though a stranger to this place,
Bewail in theirs thine own hard case:
For thou perhaps at thy return
Mayst find thy Darling in an urn.

Thomas Carew

Epitaph I. On Charles Earl Of Dorset, In The Church Of Withyam, In Sussex.

'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!'

VIRG.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.
Blest courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

Alexander Pope

Epitaph VII. On The Monument Of The Honourable Egbert Digby, And His Sister Mary.

Erected By Their Father The Lord Digby, In The Church Of Sherborne, In Dorsetshire, 1727.

Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth:
Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate,
Good without noise, without pretension great.
Just of thy word, in every thought sincere,
Who knew no wish but what the world might hear:
Of softest manners, unaffected mind,
Lover of peace, and friend of human kind:
Go live! for Heaven's eternal year is thine,^[1]
Go, and exalt thy moral to divine.

And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom,
Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb,
Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore,
Not parted long, and now to part no more!
Go then, where only bliss sincere is known!
Go, where to lov...

Alexander Pope

Epitaph On Elizabeth

Wouldst thou hear what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die;
Which in life did harbor give
To more virture than doth live.

If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
Th other let it sleep with death;
Fitter, where it died to tell,
Than that it lived at all. Farewell.

Ben Jonson

Epitaph VI. On Mrs Corbet, Who Died Of A Cancer In Her Breast.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:
No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinced that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

Alexander Pope