Мрамор, плачь: под сей плитою
Ангел спит – погребена
Рэтклифф-фрейлина, славна
Грацией и добротою.
Ах, глазам её прекрасным
Равных не было бы здесь,
Если б освещали днесь
Тьму вокруг сияньем ясным!

Редкий ум она являла;
Этот сладостный нектар
Тёк… Но Время девы дар –
Красоту и ум – пояло.
Лишь немногие, рыдая,
Ищут смерти, не пожив,
Фатум брата схоронив –
Фрейлина одна такая.


Ben Jonson
XL. ON MARGARET RATCLIFFE

Marble, weep, for thou dost cover
A dead beauty underneath thee,
Rich as nature could bequeath thee :
Grant then, no rude hand remove her.
All the gazers on the skies
Read not in fair heaven's story,
Expresser truth, or truer glory,
Than they might in her bright eyes.

Rare as wonder was her wit ;
And, like nectar, ever flowing :
Till time, strong by her bestowing,
Conquer'd hath both life and it ;
Life, whose grief was out of fashion
In these times. Few so have rued
Fate in a brother. To conclude,
For wit, feature, and true passion,
Earth, thou hast not such another.


[ AJ Note:
   Margaret Ratcliffe was one of Queen Elizabeth's
   ladies-in-waiting. She wasted away from grief in
   November 1599, after long mourning the deaths
   of four of her brothers. ]