Epitaph. On Mrs Corbet, Who Died of a Cancer in Her Breast.
Here rests a woman, good without pretence,Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired,No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,Convinced that virtue only is our own.So unaffected, so composed a mind;So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined;Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried;The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.
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