Classic Poem

George, in this peice something like thee I spie
A bashfull cheeke, a lovely modest eye
But the poore pencill skippes thy better parts
Sweetnesse of carriage, insight in the arts
Thy fault was to bee good to(o) soone, thy yeares
Could not have yet call'd for the fatall sheares
Yet who hath so much vertue is as old
As they that have theire foure score winters told.
Thus wee whose hopes of thee were mightie growne
Have but thy shadow for to gaze upon
Is this the last of all the painters paine?
And shalt thou never never live againe?
I hop'd I should have liv'd t'have seene thee drawne
In gowne & cassocke, and the reverent lawne
Whereas thine Innocense, thy riper yeares
Promis'd no lesse: but death beyond our feares
Seeinge a springe so like an harvest runne
Deceav'd us, wrapt thee hence, so thou art gone
Since this will never change, nere elder grow
Wert thou alive Ide wish thou mightst doe soe
Painter deceave mee not least I embrace
A shadow for a substance, if this face
My George's bee, give it a bashfull eye
That ne're lookes upward, but at praiers, to try
Your power of art, adde to those lippes a sound,
And let them seldome speake, but then profound
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And love of freindshippe; it is his Ile sweare.