Here lies a lady of beauty and high degree.
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f chills and fever she died, of fever and chills, The delight of her husband, her aunts, an infant of three,And of medicos marvelling sweetly on her ills. For either she burned, and her confident eyes would blazeAnd her fingers fly in a manner to puzzle their heads—What was she making? Why, nothing; she sat in a mazeOf old scraps of laces, snipped into curious shreds— ’ Or this would pass, and the light of her fire decline Till she lay discouraged and cold as a thin stalk white andblown, And would not open her eyes, to kisses, to wine; The sixth of these states was her last; the cold settled down. Sweet ladies, long may ye bloom, and toughly I hope ye maythole,But was she not lucky? In flowers and lace and mourning,In love and great honour we bade God rest her soulAfter six little spaces of chill, and six of burning. 29
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