Like to a @3Feavers pulse@1 my @3heart@1 doth beat, For fear my @3Book@1 some great repulse should meet. If it be naught, let her in silence lye, Disturbe her not, let her in quiet dye; Let not the @3Bells@1 of your @3dispraise@1 ring loud, But wrap her up in @3silence@1 as a @3Shrowd@1; Cause @3black oblivion@1 on her @3Hearse@1 to hang, Instead of @3Tapers@1, let darke night there stand; Instead of @3Flowers@1 to the grave her strow Before her @3Hearse, sleepy, dull Poppy@1 throw; Instead of @3Scutcheons@1, let my @3Teares@1 be hung, Which @3greife@1 and @3sorrow@1 from my eyes out wrung: Let those that beare her @3Corps@1, no @3Jesters@1 be, But @3sad@1, and @3sober, grave Mortality@1: No @3Satyr Poets@1 to her @3Funerall@1 come; No @3Altars@1 rays'd to write @3Inscriptions@1 on: Let dust of all @3forgetfulnesse@1 be cast Upon her @3Corps@1, there let them lye and waste: Nor let her rise againe; unlesse some know, At @3Judgements@1 some good @3Merits@1 shee can shew; Then shee shall live in @3Heavens@1 of high @3praise@1: And for her glory, @3Garlands@1 of fresh @3Bayes@1. |