70. His Winding-Sheet
Come thou, who art the wine and witOf all I’ve writ;The grace, the glory, and the bestPiece of the rest;Thou art of what I did intendThe All, and End;And what was made, was made to meet.Thee, thee my sheet.Come then, and be to my chaste sideBoth bed and bride.We two, as reliques left, will haveOne rest, one grave;And, hugging close, we need not fearLust entering here,Where all desires are dead or cold,As is the mould;And all affections are forgot,Or trouble not.Here, here the slaves and prisoners beFrom shackles free;And weeping widows, long opprest,Do here find rest.The wronged client ends his lawsHere, and his cause;Here those long suits of Chancery lieQuiet, or die;And all Star-chamber bills do cease,Or hold their peace.Here needs no court for our RequestWhere all are best;All wise, all equal, and all justAlike i’th’ dust.Nor need we here to fear the frownOf court or crown;Where fortune bears no sway o’er things,There all are kings.In this securer place we’ll keep,As lull’d asleep;Or for a little time we’ll lie,As robes laid by,To be another day re-worn,Turn’d, but not torn;Or like old testaments engrost,Lock’d up, not lost;And for a-while lie here conceal’d,To be reveal’dNext, at that great Platonic year,And then meet here.