Here rests a Woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain Reason and with sober Sense; No Conquests she, but o'er herself desir'd, No Arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd. Passion and Pride were to her soul unknown, Convinc'd, that Virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so compos'd a mind, So firm yet soft, so strong yet so refin'd, Heav'n, as its purest Gold, by Tortures try'd; The Saint sustain'd it, but the Woman dy'd. |