‘Charles Cavendish’: younger
son of the Earl of Devonshire, and
brother of Lady Rich; slain in 1643 at Gainsborough, fighting on the
king’s side, in the twenty-third year of his age.
 ‘The elder’: afterwards Earl of Devonshire.
Here lies the learned Savil’s heir,
So early wise, and lasting fair,
That none, except her years they told,
Thought her a child, or thought her old.
All that her father knew or got,
His art, his wealth, fell to her lot;
And she so well improved that stock,
Both of his knowledge and his flock,
That wit and fortune, reconciled
In her, upon each other smiled. 10
While she to every well-taught mind
Was so propitiously inclined,
And gave such title to her store,
That none, but th’ignorant, were poor.
The Muses daily found supplies,
Both from her hands and from her eyes.
Her bounty did at once engage,
And matchless beauty warm their rage.
Such was this dame in calmer days,
Her nation’s ornament and praise! 20
But when a storm disturb’d our rest,
The port and refuge of the oppress’d.
This made her fortune understood,
And look’d on as some public good.
So that (her person and her state,
Exempted from the common fate)
In all our civil fury she
Stood, like a sacred temple, free.
May here her monument stand so,
To credit this rude age! and show
To future times, that even we
Some patterns did of virtue see;
And one sublime example had
Of good, among so many bad.
 ‘Lady Sedley’: daughter of Sir
Henry Savil, provost of Eton, and who
married Sir John Sedley.
TO BE WRITTEN UNDER THE LATIN INSCRIPTION UPON THE TOMB OF THE ONLY SON
OF THE LORD ANDOVER.
’Tis fit the English reader should be told,
In our own language, what this tomb does hold.
’Tis not a noble corpse alone does lie
Under this stone, but a whole family.
His parents’ pious care, their name, their joy,
And all their hope, lies buried with this boy;
This lovely youth! for whom we all made moan,
That knew his worth, as he had been our own.
Had there been space and years enough allow’d,
His courage, wit, and breeding to have show’d, 10
We had not found, in all the num’rous roll
Of his famed ancestors, a greater soul;
His early virtues to that ancient stock
Gave as much honour, as from thence he took.
Like buds appearing ere the frosts are past,
To become man he made such fatal haste,
And to perfection labour’d so to climb,
Preventing slow experience and time,
That ’tis no wonder Death our hopes beguiled; 19
He’s seldom old that will not be a child.