Tixall Poetry/On the Death of Mr P——'s Little Daughter in the Beginning of the Spring, at Amsterdam

by unknown author

On the Death of

Mr P——'s Little Daughter,

in the Beginning of The Spring, at Amsterdam.

 

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  Say not, because no more you see
  I' th' faire armes of her mother tree
  This infant bloome, the wind or time
  Has nippt the flower before the prime;
Or what ere Autumne promiss'd to make good
In early fruit is withered i' th' budd:

  But, as when roses breath away
  Their sweet consenting soûles, none say
  The still deflowers those virgin leaves,
  But them extracts, exalts, receaves;
Even so has heavens allmighty Chymike here
Drawn this pure spiritt to its proper spheare.

  Sad parents then recall your greefes:
  Your little one now truely lives,
  Your pretty messenger of Love,
  Your new intelligence above;
Since God created such immortal flowers
To grow in his owne Paradice, not ours.