Here lyes a Boy the finest Child from me
Which makes my Heart and Soule sigh for to see
Nor can I think of any thought, but greeve,
For joy or pleasure could me not releeve,
It lived dayes as many as my years,
No more, which caused my greeved teares;
Twenty and Nine was the number;
And death hath parted us asunder,
But thou art happy, Sweet'st on High,
I mourne not for thy Birth, nor Cry.