To the Countess of Bedford
Madam,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 testament give legacies, but I Dying, of you do beg a legacy.
My fortune and my choice this custom break,When we are speechless grown to make stones speak,Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thouIn my grave's inside seest what thou art now,Yet thou 'rt not yet so good; till death us layTo ripe and mellow here, we're stubborn clay.Parents make us earth, and souls dignifyUs to be glass; here to grow gold we lie.Whilst in our souls sin bred and pamper'd is,Our souls become worm-eaten carcases,So we ourselves miraculously destroy.Here bodies with less miracle enjoySuch privileges, enabled here to scaleHeaven, 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 for thee ; And think me well composed, that I could now A last sick hour to syllables allow.
