Her, who, beneath this stone, consuming lies,
For many virtues, we might memorise;
But, most of all, the praise deserveth she
In making of her words and deeds agree.
For she so truly kept the word she spake;
As that with Death, she promise would not break.
"I shall," quoth she, "be dead, before the mid
Of such a month!" And, as she said, she did.
An Epitaph on a Child, son to Sir W. H. Knight.
Here lies, within a cabinet of stone,
The dear remainder of a Pretty One.
Who did in wit, his years so far out-pass;
His parents' wonder, and their joy he was:
And by his face, you might have deemèd him
To be on earth, some heavenly Cherubim.
Six years with life he laboured; then deceast
To keep the Sabbath of eternal rest:
So that, which many thousand able men
Are labouring for till threescore years and ten;
This blessed child attainèd to, ere seven:
And, now, enjoys it with the saints of heaven.
A Song.
Now, Young Man! Thy days and thy glories appear
Like sunshine and blossoms in Spring of the year;
Thy vigour of body, thy spirits, thy wit,
Are perfect, and sound, and untroubled yet.
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
Mispend not a morning, so excellent clear!
Never, for ever, was happiness here!
Thy noontide of life hath but little delight;
And sorrows on sorrows will follow at night!
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!