After 04 May 1609 Lucy Harrington Countess Bedford (age 29) wrote an epitaph to Bridget Harrington (deceased):

Elegie on the Ladye Marckham by L. C. B.

Death be not proud, thy hand gave not this blow,

Sin was her captive, whence thy power doth flow;

The executioner of wrath thou art,

But to destroy the just is not thy part.

Thy coming, terror, anguish, grief denounce;

Her happy state, courage, ease, joy pronounce.

From out the crystal palace of her breast,

The clearer soul was called to endless rest,

(Not by the thundering voice, wherewith God threats,

But, as with crowned saints in heaven he treats,)

And, waited on by angels, home was brought,

To joy that it through many dangers sought;

The key of mercy gently did unlock

The doors 'twixt heaven and it, when life did knock.

Nor boast, the fairest frame was made thy prey,

Because to mortal eyes it did decay;

A better witness than thou art, assures,

That though dissolved, it yet a space endures;

No dram thereof shall want or loss sustain,

When her best soul inhabits it again.

Go then to people cursed before they were,

Their spoils in triumph of thy conquest wear.

Glory not thou thy self in these hot tears

Which our face, not for hers, but our harm wears,

The mourning livery given by Grace, not thee,

Which wills our souls in these streams washed should be,

And on our hearts, her memory's best tomb,

In this her epitaph doth write thy doom.

Blind were those eyes, saw not how bright did shine

Through flesh's misty veil the beams divine.

Deaf were the ears, not charmed with that sweet sound

Which did in the spirit-instructed voice abound.

Of flint the conscience, did not yield and melt,

At what in her last Act it saw, heard, felt.

Weep not, nor grudge then, to have lost her sight,

Taught thus, our after stay's but a short night:

But by all souls not by corruption choked

Let in high raised notes that power be invoked.

Calm the rough seas, by which she sails to rest,

From sorrows here, to a kingdom ever blest;

And teach this hymn of her with joy, and sing,

The grave no conquest gets, Death hath no sting.

After 04 May 1609 John Donne (age 37) wrote an epitaph to Bridget Harrington (deceased):

Man is the world, and death the ocean,

To which God gives the lower parts of man.

This sea environs all, and though as yet

God hath set marks, and bounds, 'twixt us and it,

Yet doth it roar, and gnaw, and still pretend,

And breaks our banks, when e'er it takes a friend.

Then our land waters (tears of passion) vent;

Our waters, then, above our firmament,

(Tears which our soul doth for her sins let fall)

Take all a brackish taste, and funeral.

And even these tears, which should wash sin, are sin.

We, after God's 'No', drown our world again.

Nothing but man of all envenomed things

Doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.

Tears are false spectacles, we cannot see

Through passion's mist, what we are, or what she.

In her this sea of death hath made no breach,

But as the tide doth wash the slimy beach,

And leaves embroidered works upon the sand,

So is her flesh refined by death's cold hand.

As men of China, after an age's stay

Do take up porcelain, where they buried clay;

So at this grave, her limbeck, which refines

The diamonds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, and mines,

Of which this flesh was, her soul shall inspire

Flesh of such stuff, as God, when his last fire

Annuls this world, to recompense it, shall,

Make and name then, th' elixir of this all.

They say, the sea, when it gains, loseth too;

If carnal death (the younger brother) do

Usurp the body, our soul, which subject is

To th' elder death, by sin, is freed by this;

They perish both, when they attempt the just;

For, graves our trophies are, and both deaths' dust.

So, unobnoxious now, she hath buried both;

For, none to death sins, that to sin is loth.

Nor do they die, which are not loth to die,

So hath she this, and that virginity.

Grace was in her extremely diligent,

That kept her from sin, yet made her repent.

Of what small spots pure white complains! Alas,

How little poison cracks a crystal glass!

She sinned, but just enough to let us see

That God's word must be true, all, sinners be.

So much did zeal her conscience rarefy,

That, extreme truth lacked little of a lie,

Making omissions, acts; laying the touch

Of sin, on things that sometimes may be such.

As Moses' cherubins, whose natures do

Surpass all speed, by him are winged too:

So would her soul, already in heaven, seem then,

To climb by tears, the common stairs of men.

How fit she was for God, I am content

To speak, that death his vain haste may repent.

How fit for us, how even and how sweet,

How good in all her titles, and how meet,

To have reformed this forward heresy,

That women can no parts of friendship be;

How moral, how divine shall not be told,

Lest they that hear her virtues, think her old:

And lest we take death's part, and make him glad

Of such a prey, and to his triumph add.

After 04 May 1609 Francis Beaumont (age 25) wrote an epitaph to Bridget Harrington (deceased):

As unthrifts groan in straw for their pawn'd beds,

As women weep for their lost maidenheads,

When both are without hope or remedy,

Such an untimely grief I have for thee.

I never saw thy face, nor did my heart

Urge forth mine eyes unto it whilst thou wert;

But being lifted hence, that, which to thee

Was death's sad dart, proved Cupid's shaft to me.

Whoever thinks me foolish that the force

Of a report can make me love a corse,

Know he that when with this I do compare

The love I do a living woman bear,

I find myself most happy: now I know

Where I can find my mistress, and can go

Unto her trimm'd bed, and can lift away

Her grass-green mantle, and her sheet display;

And touch her naked; and though th' envious mold

In which she lies uncover'd, moist, and cold,

Strive to corrupt her, she will not abide

With any art her blemishes to hide,

As many living do, and, know their need;

Yet cannot they in sweetness her exceed,

But make a stink with all their art and skill,

Which their physicians warrant with a bill;

Nor at her door doth heaps of coaches stay,

Footmen and midwives to bar up my way;

Nor needs she any maid or page to keep,

To knock me early from my golden sleep,

With letters that her honour all is gone,

If I not right her cause on such a one.

Her heart is not so hard to make me pay

For every kiss a supper and a play:

Nor will she ever open her pure lips

To utter oaths, enough to drown our ships,

To bring a plague, a famine, or the sword,

Upon the land, though she should keep her word;

Yet, ere an hour be past, in some new vein

Break them, and swear them double o'er again.

Pardon me, that with thy blest memory

I mingle mine own former misery:

Yet dare I not excuse the fate that brought

These crosses on me, for then every thought

That tended to thy love was black and foul,

Now all as pure as a new-baptiz'd soul:

For I protest, for all that I can see,

I would not lie one night in bed with thee;

Nor am I jealous, but could well abide

My foe to lie in quiet by thy side.

You worms, my rivals, whilst she was alive,

How many thousands were there that did strive

To have your freedom? for their sake forbear

Unseemly holes in her soft skin to wear:

But if you must (as what worms can abstain

To taste her tender body?) yet refrain

With your disordered eatings to deface her,

But feed yourselves so as you most may grace her.

First, through her ear-tips see you make a pair

Of holes, which, as the moist inclosed air

Turns into water, may the clean drops take,

And in her ears a pair of jewels make.

Have ye not yet enough of that white skin,

The touch whereof, in times past, would have been

Enough to have ransom'd many a thousand soul

Captive to love? If not, then upward roll

Your little bodies, where I would you have

This Epitaph upon her forehead grave:

'Living, she was young, fair, and full of wit;

Dead, all her faults are in her forehead writ.'