Lett her parents then confesse <br />That they beleeve her happinesse, <br />Which now they question. Thinke as you <br />Lent her the world, Heaven lent her you: <br />And is it just then to complayne <br />When each hath but his owne againe? <br />Then thinke what both your glories are <br />In her preferment: for tis farre <br />Nobler to gett a Saint, and beare <br />A childe to Heaven than an Heyre <br />To a large Empire. Thinke beside <br />Shee dyde not yong, but livde a Bride. <br />Your best wishes for her good <br />Were but to see her well bestowde: <br />Was shee not so? Shee marryed to <br />The heyre of all things: who did owe <br />Her infant Soule, and bought it too. <br />Nor was shee barren: markt you not <br />Those pretty little Graces, that <br />Play'd round about her sicke bedde; three <br />Th' eldst Faith, Hope, & Charity. <br />Twere pretty bigge ones, and the same <br />That cryde so on theyr Fathers name. <br />The yongst is gone with Her: the two <br />Eldest stay to comfort you, <br />And little though they bee, they can <br />Master the biggest foes of man. <br />Lastly thinke that Hir abode <br />With you was some fewe years boarde; <br />After hir marriage: now shee's gone <br />Home, royally attended on: <br />And if you had Elisha's sight <br />To see the number of her bright <br />Attendants thither; or Paul's rapt sprite <br />To see her Welcome there; why then, <br />Wish if you could Her here agen. <br />Ime sure you could not: but all passion <br />Would loose itselfe in admiration, <br />And strong longings to be there <br />Where, cause shee is, you mourn for Her<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/consolatorium-ad-parentes/
