WEEP with me, all you that read     This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed     Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive     In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive     Which own'd the creature. Years he number'd scarce thirteen     When Fates turn'd cruel, Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been     The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan)     Old men so duly, As sooth the Parcae thought him one,     He play'd 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.