 | Poems, Songs and Love-Verses |  |
An Epitaph.
Alas, poor Infant! Death was too severe,
O're such small Bones to raise a Trophy here.
Merciless Tyrant, thus for to bereave
Thee of thy life, scarce giving time to Breath.
Thou wert a Gem, as quickly lost as found,
Thy Life and Death was in one Volumn bound.
If Prayers and Tears cou'd have preserv'd thy Breath,
Thou yet hadst liv'd triumphant over Death.
But thou wert snatch'd away, thy rising Sun
Finish'd its Course e're it had scarce begun;
And we in darkness mourn, yet we can see
The Hand that cuts the Twig may fell the Tree.
Sweet Fruits soon drop, but those that longer last
Always do relish with a sower taste.
O're such small Bones to raise a Trophy here.
Merciless Tyrant, thus for to bereave
Thee of thy life, scarce giving time to Breath.
Thou wert a Gem, as quickly lost as found,
Thy Life and Death was in one Volumn bound.
If Prayers and Tears cou'd have preserv'd thy Breath,
Thou yet hadst liv'd triumphant over Death.
But thou wert snatch'd away, thy rising Sun
Finish'd its Course e're it had scarce begun;
And we in darkness mourn, yet we can see
The Hand that cuts the Twig may fell the Tree.
Sweet Fruits soon drop, but those that longer last
Always do relish with a sower taste.
Optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris
Implentur numeris deteriora suis.
Implentur numeris deteriora suis.
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