Epitaph On The Tombstone Of A Child

This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent ;
The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song ;
Which now each List'ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg'd Cupids, ere their Charms
Has learn'd the little arts of doing harms ;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin'd ;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil'd here on Earth, retir'd to rest in Heaven ;
Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,
Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.

Aphra Behn

Aphra Behn was a prolific English playwright, poet, and novelist of the Restoration era. She is often considered one of the first English women to earn a living by her writing, breaking barriers for future generations of female writers. Behn's work is characterized by its bold exploration of gender and sexuality, and she wrote in various genres, including comedy, tragedy, and prose fiction. Her most famous works include the novel 'Oroonoko' and the play 'The Rover.' Behn's career and works remain a topic of study and interest in feminist literary scholarship.

Aphra Behn

To the Fair Clarinda

Aphra Behn, Simple Poetry

Song

Aphra Behn, Simple Poetry

A Thousand Martyrs I Have Made

Aphra Behn, Simple Poetry

Love Arm'd

Aphra Behn, Simple Poetry

English

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An Epitaph On A Child Of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel

Weep with me, all you that read
This little story;
And know, for whom a tear you shed
Deaths self is sorry.
Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,
As heaven and nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When fates turned cruel,
Yet three filled zodiacs had be been
The stages jewel;
And did act what now we moan,
Old men so duly,
As, sooth, the parcae thought him one,
He played so truly.

So by error, so his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since, alas too late,
They have repented,
And have sought to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;
But being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

Ben Jonson

On The Death Of E. Waller, Esq.

How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring
(Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?
I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become
Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?
While every soft, and every tender Strain
Is ruffl'd, and ill-natur'd grown with Pain.
But, at thy Name, my languisht Muse revives,
And a new Spark in the dull Ashes strives.
I hear thy tuneful Verse, thy Song Divine;
And am lnspir'd by every charming Line.
But, Oh!......
What Inspiration, at the second hand,
Can an Immortal Elegic Command?
Unless, Me Pious Offerings, mine should be
Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee.
Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse,
Should be those Trophies that adom thy Hearse.
The Thought Illustrious, and the Fancy Young;
The Wit Sublime, the Judgment Fine, and Strong;

Aphra Behn

An Epitaph Upon A Child

Virgins promised when I died,
That they would each primrose-tide
Duly, morn and evening, come,
And with flowers dress my tomb.
Having promised, pay your debts
Maids, and here strew violets.

Robert Herrick

Epitaph

On Salathiel Peavy, A Child of Queen Elizabeths Chapel

Weep with me, all you that read
This little story;
And know, for whom a tear you shed
Deaths self is sorry.
Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,
As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.
Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When Fates turned cruel,
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been
The stages jewel;
And did act (what now we moan)
Old men so duly,
As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one,
He played so truly.
So, by error, to his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since (alas, too late),
They have repented,
And have sought, to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;
But, being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to...

Ben Jonson

Epitaph.

("Il vivait, il jouait.")

[Bk. III. xv., May, 1843.]


He lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing.
What need, O Earth, to have plucked this flower from blossoming?
Hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colors bright,
The stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky?
What need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by -
Beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight?

Because of this one child thou hast no more of might,
O star-girt Earth, his death yields thee not higher delight!
But, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild,
This heart whose sovran bliss brought forth so bitter birth -
This world as vast as thou, even thou, O sorrowless Earth,
Is desolate and void because of this o...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Epitaph On S.P., A Child Of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel

Weep with me, all you that read
This little story;
And know for whom a tear you shed,
Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,
As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.
Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When Fates turned cruel,
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;
And did act (what now we moan)
Old men so duly,
As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one,
He played so truly.
So, by error, to his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since (alas, too late),
They have repented,
And have sought (to give new birth)
In baths to steep him;
But, being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

Ben Jonson