Sir John Beaumont (1583–1627)

CAN I, who have for others oft compil’d

The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,

Which, like a flow’r crusht, with a blast is dead,

And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,

Expecting with clear hope to live anew,

Among the angels fed with heav’nly dew?…

Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love

To me was like a friendship, far above

The course of nature or his tender age;

Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage:

Let his pure soul, ordain’d seven years to be

In that frail body which was part of me,

Remain my pledge in Heav’n, as sent to show

How to this port at every step I go.