Forbear , bold Passenger, forbear
The verge of this sad sepulchre;
Put off thy shoes, nor dare to tread
The hallowed earth, where shee lies dead:
For, in this vault the Magazine
Of female virtue's stor'd, and in
This marble casket is confin'd
The jewel of all woman-kinde.

For, here shee lies, whose spring was crown'd
With every grace in beautie found;
Whose Summer to that Spring did suit;
Whose Autumne crackt with happie fruit;
Whose Fall was like her life so spent,
Exemplary, and excellent.

For, here the fairest, chastest Mayd,
That this Age ever knew, is layd,
The best of Kindred, best of Friends,
Of most faith, and of fewest ends,
Whose Fame the tracks of Time survives,
The best of Mothers, best of Wives.

Lastly, which the whole summe of prais implies.
Here shee, who was the best of Women, lies.