Classic Poem

Thou maist be proud and be thou so for me
yet know there is a death for me & thee
when as poore souls our softer frailties must
be lost in blended dust,
That Charnell house that keepes us both shall signe
no neat distinction twixt thy bones & mine.

And when to Hell our two lean soules must come
Where that just judge shall giue to each his doome
Think'st thou thy pride forme colour there can fee
Him not to censure thee
Know wretched soule a judge thou there shalt finde
Who not respects the body but the minde.

And for my plea in acorne cups Ile show
Those two last teares which from mine eyes did flow
And all my sighs through silke-worme bags shall sound
Thou gau'st me deadly wound.
Can Justice then when these haue sworne thy guilt,
Ah! not reuenge the blood that thou hast spilt.