Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong, <br />But weepe because yourselves have livde so long: <br />Age is not fild by growth of time, for then <br />What old man lives to see th' estate of men? <br />Who sees the age of grande Methusalem? <br />Ten years make us as old as hundreds him. <br />Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye <br />When nature hath obteynde maturity. <br />Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all <br />Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall. <br />Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde; <br />She dyed more like a mother than a childe. <br />Weigh the composure of her pretty partes: <br />Her gravity in childhood; all her artes <br />Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue <br />So wisely measurde, not too short nor long; <br />And to her youth adde some few riches more, <br />She tooke upp now what due was at threescore. <br />She livde seven years, our age's first degree; <br />Journeys at first time ended happy bee; <br />Yet take her stature with the age of man, <br />They well are fitted: both are but a span.<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-mistress-mary-prideaux/
