Nature, will it ever be
That we must complaine or thee?
Shall then all our search ne'r finde
Age at least to worth assign'd?
Must this constant truth be knowne
Vertue dead as soone as Growne?
Happy Deane then, who may'st call
Thirty, Climactericall,
And in spite of Envies sport
Prove thy good life by thy short,
Thus when others that doe dye
Old or in their Infancy,
Must (if our Divines say true)
Be transform'd and shap'd a new,
That at length they may appeare
Much about our Saviours yeare
(For in Heav'n there never shall
Enter either Old or Small
Since that these can ne'r agree
Weakenesse and Æternity,)
Thou, deare shadow, needst not have
Any wonder in the grave,
Done for thee, nor thinke upon
Future augmentation
Reader, he that herein lies
Dy'd as old as he shall rise.