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| Augure me better chance, except dread Jove |
| Think it enough for me to have had thy love. |
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| On himself. |
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| My Fortune and my choice this custome break, |
| When we are speechless grown, to make stones speak: |
| Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thou |
| In my graves inside seest what thou art now: |
| Yet thou art not yet so good, till death us lay |
| To ripe and mellow here, we are stuborn Clay. |
| Parents make us earth, and souls dignifie |
| Us to be glass; here to grow gold we lie; |
| Whilst in our souls sin bred and pamper'd is, |
| Our souls become worm-eaten carcasses; |
| So we our selves miraculously destroy, |
| Here bodies with less miracle enjoy |
| Such priviledges, enabled here to scale |
| Heaven, when the Trumpets ayre shall then exhale. |
| Hear this, and mend thy self, and thou mendst me, |
| By making me being dead, do good for thee, |
| And think me well compos'd, that I could now |
| A last-sick hour to syllables allow. |
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| Elegie. |
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| Madam, |
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| 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 scrowl.
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[CW: Others] |