Tixall Poetry.
99
To
Sir William and My Lady Persall,
Uppon the Death of Their Little Franke.
Happy parents, mourne no more,
You this iewell but restore:
Nor yet question Heavens will,
Why he was not lent you still.
As you merited that grace,
So his innocence the place
We all ambition; nor could you
Covet yours to bar his due.
Say in him we know did meete
All was good, and all was sweet,
Does this aggravate your cross?
Your gaine is greater then your loss.
For, alas! what did he here?
Please your eye, delight your eare:
He your senses' welcome guest,
Treates your soules now with a feast.
You this iewell but restore:
Nor yet question Heavens will,
Why he was not lent you still.
As you merited that grace,
So his innocence the place
We all ambition; nor could you
Covet yours to bar his due.
Say in him we know did meete
All was good, and all was sweet,
Does this aggravate your cross?
Your gaine is greater then your loss.
For, alas! what did he here?
Please your eye, delight your eare:
He your senses' welcome guest,
Treates your soules now with a feast.
