On Salathiel Pavy

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 seem’d to strive
      Which own’d the creature.
Years he number’d scarce thirteen
      When Fates turn’d cruel,
Yet three fill’d zodiacs had he been
      The stage’s jewel;
And did act (what now we moan)
      Old men so duly,
As sooth the Parcæ thought him one,
      He play’d 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.