Her Epitaph

Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine That which makes thee a rich mine: Remember yet, 'tis but a loane; And wee must have it back, Her owne, The very same; Marke mee, the same: Thou canst not cheat us with a lame Deformed Carcase; Shee was fayre, Fresh as Morning, sweete as Ayre: Purer than other flesh as farre As other Soules than Bodies are: And that thou mayst the better see To finde her out: two stars there bee Eclipsed now; uncloude but those And they will poynt thee to the Rose That dyde each cheeke, now pale and wan, But will bee when shee wakes againe Fresher than ever: And howere Her long sleepe may alter Her Her Soule will know her Body streight, Twas made so fitt for't. Noe deceite Can suite another to it: none Cloath it so neatly as its owne.