MADAME, That I might make your Cabinet my tomb, And for my fame which I love next my soul, Next to my soul provide the happiest room, Admit to that place this last funeral scroll. Others by wills give legacies, but I Dying, of you do beg a Legacy. My fortune and my will this custome break, 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 there, w'are stubborne clay, Parents make us earth, and souls dignify Us to be glasse, here to grow gold we lie; Whilst in our souls sin bred and pampered is, Our souls become worm-eaten carcases. So we ourselves miraculously destroy. Here bodies with less miracle enjoy Such privileges, enabled here to scale Heaven, when the trumpet's air shall them exhale. Hear this, and mend thyself, and thou mend'st me, By making me being dead, do good to thee, And think me well composed, that I could now A last-sick hour to syllables allow. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLIND BOY by COLLEY CIBBER THE FAIR SINGER by ANDREW MARVELL NORTHERN FARMER, NEW STYLE by ALFRED TENNYSON ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH DRINKING SONG (2) by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE URANIA; THE WOMAN IN THE MOON: DEDICATION TO LADY PENELOPE DYNHAM by WILLIAM BASSE |