Classic Poem

Deare Infant, 'twas thy mother's fault
So soone inclos'd thee in a vault:
And fathers good, that in such hast
Has my sweet child in heaven plac'd.
I'le weepe the first as my offence,
Then joy that he made recompence:
Yet must confesse my frailty such
My joy by griefe's exceeded much:
Though I, in reason, know thy blisse
Can not be wish'd more than it is,
Yet this selfe love orerules me soe;
I'de have thee here, or with thee goe.
But since that now neyther can be,
A vertue of necessitie
I yet may make, now all my pelf
Content for thee, though not myselfe.