Classic Poem

Need they embalm, in Lead thus wrap thee dead,
My tears will re-embalm, my heart turn Lead?
Who take thy bowels out, sure take out mine,
They by a sympathy were no lesse then thine;
With an inviscerate dotage I did love;
Could not thy death ah then my bowels move?
Watson is dead, and with him buried art:
Ah who can cure the wounds made in my heart?
Who dying made could onely living cure,
How could he die, and I no death endure?
Who could with Watson in dissections vy,
Who dying makes, his friend Anatomy .
Each part was his, grief will asunder take,
And of his art will me a monument make.
Could I survive, I'm quickned by his fame,
How can he dye who writes but Watsons name.