But why do we thy Death untimely deem;
Or Fate blaspheme?
We should thy full ripe Vertues wrong,
To think thee young.
Fate, when she did thy vigorous Growth behold,
And all thy forward Glories told,
Forgot thy tale of Years, and thought thee old.
The brisk Endowments of thy Mind
Scorning i'th' Bud to be confin'd,
Out-ran thy Age, and left slow Time behind;
Which made thee reach Maturity so soon,
And at first Dawn present a full-spread Noon.
So thy Perfections with thy Soul agree,
Both knew no Non-age, knew no Infancy.
Thus the first Patern of our Race began
His Life in middle-age, at's Birth a perfect Man.