136. To Anthea
Now is the time when all the lights wax dim;And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from himWho was thy servant: Dearest, bury meUnder that holy-oak, or gospel-tree;Where, though thou see’st not, thou may’st think uponMe, when thou yearly go’st procession;Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tombIn which thy sacred reliques shall have room;For my embalming, Sweetest, there will beNo spices wanting, when I’m laid by thee.