To Anthea (Now is the time, when all the lights wax dim;)

Now is the time, when all the lights wax dim;

And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from him

Who was thy servant. Dearest, bury me

Under that Holy-oak or Gospel-tree,

Where, though thou see'st not, thou may'st think upon

Me, when thou yearly go'st procession;

Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tomb

In which thy sacred relics shall have room.

For my embalming, sweetest, there will be

No spices wanting when I'm laid by thee.