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Henry King - On two Children dying of one Disease, and buried in one Grave
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Brought forth in sorrow, and bred up in care, 
Two tender Children here entombed are: 
One Place, one Sire, one Womb their being gave, 
They had one mortal sickness, and one grave. 
And though they cannot number many years 
In their Account, yet with their Parents tears 
This comfort mingles; Though their dayes were few 
They scarcely sinne, but never sorrow knew: 
So that they well might boast, they carry`d hence 
What riper ages lose, their innocence. 
You pretty losses, that revive the fate 
Which in your mother death did antedate, 
O let my high-swol`n grief distill on you 
The saddest drops of a Parentall dew: 
You ask no other dower then what my eyes 
Lay out on your untimely exequies: 
When once I have discharg`d that mournfull skore, 
Heav`n hath decreed you ne`re shall cost me more, 
Since you release and quit my borrow`d trust, 
By taking this inheritance of dust.
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