如果我能写一首永恒的诗，亲爱的圣人，我要把它放在你的椅子上。但悲伤不是缪斯，它承认它最不能表达它最想表达的东西。然而，如果我有一些悲伤的界限允许，我将尝试如果我现在可以哭泣。啊，美丽的花朵!死得太早了!你的甜蜜逃到哪里去了?从你眼睛的语言中产生的魅力在哪里?你谦逊的风度和可爱的容貌，以及在这些容貌中所看到的一切奇迹，哪里去了?唉!在vaine ! In vaine on three I rave; There is no pitty in the stupid grave . . . Never, ah never let glad parents guesse At one remove of future happinesse, But reckon children 'mong those passing joys, Which one hour gives, and the next hour destroyes. Alas! we were secure of our content, But find too late that it was onely lent, To be a mirrour wherein we might see How fraile we are, how innocent should be. But if to thy blest soule my griefe appeares, Forgive and pitty these injurious teares; Impute them to affection's sad excesse, Which will not yeild to nature's tendernesse, Since 'twas through dearest tyes and highest trust Continu'd from thy cradle to thy dust; And so rewarded and confirm'd by thine, (wo is me!) I thought thee too much mine. But I'le resigne, and follow thee as fast As my unhappy minutes will make hast. Till when, the fresh remembrances of thee Shall be my emblem of mortalitie. For such a loss as thine, bright soule, is not Ever to be repaired, or forgot.