|
| Elegie. |
|
MADAME,
That I might make your Cabinet my tombe, |
| And for my fame which I love next my soule, |
| Next to my soule provide the happiest roome, |
| Admit to that place this last funerall Scrowle. |
| Others by Wills give Legacies, but I |
| Dying, of you doe beg a Legacie. |
|
| My fortune and my will this custome breake, |
| When we are senselesse grown to make stones speak, |
| Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thou |
| In my graves inside see what thou art now, |
| Yet th'art not yet so good; till us death lay |
| To ripe and mellow three,* w'are stubborne clay, |
| Parents make us earth, and soules dignifie |
| Vs to be glasse, here to grow gold we lie; |
| Whilst in our soules sinne bred and pampered is, |
| Our soules become worme-eaten Carkasses.
|
[CW: Elegie] |