Classic Poem

Sir Thomas Bitefig as sick, Iane .

Sr Tho. Now that I have made ev'n Girl, with Heav'n,
Though I am past the worst, and I perceive
My dinner only griev'd me, yet cause Life's
Frail, and uncertain, let me counsell thee,
'Tis good to be before hand still. First then
I charge thee lend no money; next serve God;
If ever thou hast Children teach 'em thrift;
They'l learn Religion fast enough themselves.
Nay, do not weep but hearken. When Heav'n shall
Please to call in this Weary Soul of mine,
Ben't idle in expence about my Burial;
Buy me a shroud, any old sheet will serve
To cloath corruption; I can rot without
Fine linnen; 'tis but to enrich the Grave,
And adorn stench, no reverence to the dead,
To make 'em crumble more luxuriously.
One Torch will be sufficient to direct
The footsteps of my Bearers. If there be
Any so kind as to accompanie
My body to the Earth, let them not want
For entertainment, prethee see they have
A sprig of Rosemary dip'd in common water,
To smell to as they walk along the streets.
Eatings and drinkings are no obsequies.
Raise no oppressing Pile to load my Ashes;
But if thou'l needs b' at charges of a Tomb,
Five or six foot of common stone engrav'd
With a good hopefull word, or else a couple
Of capital letters filled up with pitch,
Such as I set upon my Sheep, will serve;
State is not meet for those that dwell in dust.
Mourn as thou pleasest for me, plainness shews
True grief: I give thee leave to do it for
Two or three years, if that thou shalt think fit.
'Twill save expence in cloaths. And so now be
My blessing on thee, and my means hereafter.
Jan. I hope Heav'n will not deal so rigidly
With me, as to preserve me to th' unwelcome
Performance of these sad injunctions.