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Others by Wills give Legacies, but I
Dying, of you do beg a Legacy.
My fortune and my will this custom break,
When we are senseless 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 stubborn clay,
Parents make us earth, and souls dignifie
Us to be glass, here to grow gold we ly;
Whilst in our souls sin bred and pamper'd is,
Our souls becom worm-eaten Carcasses.
[Transcriptions are not provided for noncanonical poems,
elegies on Donne by other authors, or prose compositions]