Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

WEEP with me, all you that read

This little story;

And know, for whom a tear you shed,

Death’s self is sorry.

It was a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,

As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive

Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen

When fates turned cruel,

Yet three filled zodiacs had he been

The stage’s jewel;

And did act, what now we moan,

Old men so duly,

Ah, sooth, the Parcae thought him one—

He played so truly.

So by error to his fate

They all consented,

But viewing him since, alas, too late

They have repented;

And have sought, to give new birth,

In baths to steep him;

But being so much too good for earth,

Heaven vows to keep him.