And though they cannot number many years
In their account, yet with their parent's tears
This comfort mingles; Though their days were few,
They scarcely sin, but never sorrow knew;
So that they well might boast, they carried hence
10What riper ages lose, their innocence.
You pretty losses, that revive the fate,
Which, in your mother, death did antedate,
O let my high-swoln grief distil on you
The saddest drops of a parental dew: