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Poem	As sinn makes gross the soule and thickens it To fleshy dulness, so the spotless white Of virgin pureness made thy flesh as cleere As others soules: thou couldst not tarry heere All soule in both parts: and what could it bee The Resurrection could bestow on thee, Allready glorious? thine Innocence (Thy better shroude) sent thee as pure from hence As saints shall rise: but hee whose bounty may Enlighten the greate sunn with double day, And make it more outshine itselfe than now It can the moone, shall crowne thy varnish'd brow With light above that sunn: when thou shalt bee No lower in thy place than Majesty: Crown'd with a Virgin's wreath, outshining there The Saints as much as thou did'st mortalls heere. Bee this thy hope; and whilst thy ashes ly Asleepe in death, dreame of Eternity.
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