ost soothing,
grateful, and inspiring to him. She was found dead in her bed one
morning, her cheek resting on her hand.

She past away
So sweetly from the world, as if her clay
Laid only down to slumber.

Jonson dedicated to her memory the imperishable tribute of his heart
in a long poem made up of ten parts. The ninth part is inscribed,
"Elegy on my Muse, the truly honored Lady Venetia Digby, who, living,
gave me leave to call her so." These lines are from it:

There time that I died too, now she is dead,
Who was my Muse, and life of all I said,
The spirit that I wrote with and conceived
All that was good or great with me, she weaved,
And set it forth: the rest were cobwebs fine,
Spun out in name of some of the old Nine,
To hang a window or make dark the room
Till, swept away, they were cancelled with a broom.

Lucy, the Countess of Bedford, was likewise a great friend of Ben
Jonson. He has sung her worth in one of the most magnificent of his
shorter poems. She was also a kind and fast friend of Daniel and
Donne, both of whom wrote verses in her honor. But Jonson vastly
distanced them both. Exquisite and sublime as his praise was, it was
agreed, by those who knew her, that she fully deserved it. It is a
luxury to recall such a tribute:

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire,
I thought to form unto my zealous Muse
What kind of creature I could most desire
To honor, serve, and love; as poets use,
I meant to make her fair and free and wise,
Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,
Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride:
I meant each softest virtue there should meet,
Fit in that softer bosom to reside.
Only a learned and a manly soul
I purposed her, that should, with even powers,
The rock, the spindle, and the shears, control,
Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours.
Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see,
My Muse bade, BEDFORD write, and that was She.

Milton had many qualities and tastes fitting him to be the delight of
female society, and to delight in it. His natural bent for all the
delicacies of sentiment, for every fine and high range of character,
thought, and passion, has strewn many choice expressions of itself in
his writings, and sprinkles his poems with eulogistic allusions to
the virtues and charms of womanhood. These have too much