To Mr. Miles Moody, Poem by John Ashmore

And doth the Torrent of thy long-pent Griefe
At last breake through the flood-gates of thy woe;
That in a streame of teares findes some reliefe,
Which from thy heart o'r-charg'd with Sorrow flowe?
Nor can I blame thee, that (so left alone)
The loss thou of thy dearest doth bemone;
Like the true Turtle, that his lovely mate
(As she is busie feeding of her young)
Beholds oth' sudden (O ungentle Fate!)
With a wreath'd Serpent slily creeping stung;
Whose poyson shed it selfe int' ev'ry part,
And ceased not till it had seiz'd her hart.
Her Minde devout, her Life was harmless led:
To parents, children, and to thee most dear.
With hope of Ioy, she (on her dying bed)
Vndanted, intertain'd Death drawing neare.
In Earth, she by these vertues was commended:
These were the staires by which she Heaven ascended.
Then serve a Supersedeas on thy Woe:
She will be absent from thee but a while.
Meane while, the houres, that lingring seem too slowe,
Thou with her lively pictures maist beguile.
The time's at hand, when (ioynd in Ioyes for ever)
Nor Time, nor Death, shall powr have you to sever.