Weep with me all ye 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.