Classic Poem

Arithmetique nine digits, and no more
Admits of, then I still have all my store.
For what mischance hath tane from my left hand,
It seemes did only for a Cipher stand.
But this I'le say for thee departed joynt,
Thou wert not given to steale, nor pick, not point
At any in disgrace; but thou didst go
Untimely to thy Death only to show
The other members what they once must doe;
Hand, arme, legge, thigh, and all must follow too.
Oft didst thou scan my verse, where if I misse
Henceforth I will impute the cause to this.
A fingers losse (I speake it not in sport)
Will make a verse a Foot too short.
Farewell deare finger, much I greive to see
How soone mischance hath made a Hand of thee.