With a most free and bounteous grief, I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book 70 Each parcel of this rarity, Which in thy casket shrined doth lie: See that thou make thy reckoning straight, And yield her back again by weight; For thou must audit on thy trust 75 Each grain and atom of this dust, As thou wilt answer him that lent, Not gave, thee, my dear monument. So close the ground, and ’bout her shade Black curtains draw; my bride is laid. 80 Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted! My last good night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must 85 Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there; I will not fail To meet thee in that hallow vale. 90 And think not much of my delay; I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree, 95 And every hour a step towards thee. At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours’ sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 100 Thus from the sun my bottom steers, And my day’s compass downward bears: Nor labour I to stem the tide, Through which to thee I swiftly glide. ’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 105 Thou, like the van, first took’st the field, And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. 110 But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And slow howe’er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, 115 And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive The crime) I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. 120 _Henry King._ CXXII _EPITAPH._ Our life is only death! time that ensu’th Is but the death of time that went before; Youth is the death of childhood, age of youth; Die once to God, and then thou diest no more. _Anon._ CXXIII _SONNET._