Epitaph On Her Son H. P. At St. Syth’s Church Wher Her Body Also Lies Interred

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.