Deare infant, 'twas thy mother's fault
So soone inclos'd thee in a vault:
And fathers good, that in such hast
Has my sweet child in heaven plac'd.
I'le weepe the first as my offence,
Then ioy that he made recompence:
Yet must confesse my frailty such
My ioy by greife's exceeded much:
Though I, in reason, know thy blisse
Can not be wish'd more then it is,
Yet this selfelove orerules me soe,
I'de have thee here, or with thee goe.
But since that now neyther can be,
A vertue of necessitie
I yet may make, now all my pelf
Content for thee, though not myselfe.