Epitaph on her Son H. P.

WHat on Earth deserves our trust ? Youth and Beauty both are dust. Long we gathering are with pain, What one moment calls again. Seven years childless, marriage past, A Son, a son is born at last : So exactly lim'd and fair. Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air, As a long life promised, Yet, in less than six weeks dead. Too promising, too great a mind In so small room to be confin'd : Therefore, as fit in Heav'n to dwell, He quickly broke the Prison shell. So the subtle Alchimist, Can't with Hermes Seal resist The powerful spirit's subtler flight, But t'will bid him long good night. And so the Sun if it arise Half so glorious as his Eyes, Like this Infant, takes a shrowd, Buried in a morning Cloud.