Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EPITAPH ON HIMSELF: TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD, by JOHN DONNE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

EPITAPH ON HIMSELF: TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Madam, that I might make your cabinet my tomb
Last Line: A last-sick hour to syllables allow.


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.




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