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Poem	Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong, But weepe because yourselves have livde so long: Age is not fild by growth of time, for then What old man lives to see th' estate of men? Who sees the age of grande Methusalem? Ten years make us as old as hundreds him. Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye When nature hath obteynde maturity. Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall. Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde; She dyed more like a mother than a childe. Weigh the composure of her pretty partes: Her gravity in childhood; all her artes Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue So wisely measurde, not too short nor long; And to her youth adde some few riches more, She tooke upp now what due was at threescore. She livde seven years, our age's first degree; Journeys at first time ended happy bee; Yet take her stature with the age of man, They well are fitted: both are but a span.
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