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Poem	Weep with me, all you 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 seemed to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen When fates turned cruel, Yet three filled zodiacs had be been The stage's jewel; And did act what now we moan, Old men so duly, As, sooth, the parcae thought him one, He played so truly. So by error, so 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.
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