Epitaph on S.P., a Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel
Weep with me, all you that read This little story; And know for whom a tear you shed, Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen When Fates turned cruel, Yet three filled zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly, As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one, He played so truly. So, by error, to his fate They all consented; But viewing him since (alas, too late), They have repented, And have sought (to give new birth) In baths to steep him; But, being so much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him.
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