Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see
Me, day by day, to steale away from thee?
Age cals me hence, and my gray haires bid come
And haste away to mine eternal home;
’Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,
That I must give thee the supremest kisse:
Dead when I am, first cast in _salt_, and bring
Part of the creame from that religious spring,
With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;
That done, then wind me in that very sheet
Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst plore
The gods protection but the night before;
Follow me weeping to my turfe, and there
Let fall a primrose, and with it a teare:
Then, lastly, let some weekly strewings be
Devoted to the memory of me;
Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep
Still in the cold and silent shades of sleep.
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