Classic Poem

I LIE upon my last made bed,
About to share it with the dead.
Death's cold hand makes me think the more
Of other hands less cold before.
I will not press too close; no fear
Of finding any rival near;
Nor will ye turn your heads away
From the fond things I used to say,
Nor shall I hear. Now, I declare ,
You jealous man! how changed you are.
Too true indeed is that remark,
And ye may see it in the dark.