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The Church.
Yet still thou goest on,And now with darknesse closest wearie eyes,Saying to man, It doth suffice:Henceforth repose; your work is done.
Thus in thy Ebony boxThou dost inclose us, till the dayPut our amendment in our way,And give new wheels to our disorder'd clocks.
I muse, which shows more love,The day or night: that is the gale, this th'harbour;That is the walk, and this the arbour;Or that the garden, this the grove.
My God, thou art all love.Not one poore minute scapes thy breast,But brings a favour from above:And in this love, more then in bed, I rest.
¶ Church-monuments.
WHile that my soul repairs to her devotion,Here I intombe my flesh, that it betimesMay take acquaintance of this heap of dust;To which the blast of deaths incessant motion,Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust
My bodie to this school, that it may learnTo spell his elements, and finde his birthWritten in dustie heraldrie and lines;Which dissolution sure doth best discern,Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.These laugh at Jeat, and Marble put for signes,
To
