Whether thy father's, or disease's rage,
More mortal prov'd to thy unhappy age,
Our sorrow needs not question; since the first
Is known for length and sharpness much the worst.
Thy fever yet was kind; which the ninth day
For thy misfortunes made an easy way.
When th' other barbarous and hectic fit,
In nineteen winters did not intermit.
I therefore vainly now not ask thee why
10Thou didst so soon in thy youth's mid-way die: