When we are dead, and now, no more Our harmless mirth, our wit, and score Distracts the town; when all is spent That the base niggard world hath lent Thy purse, or mine; when the loath'd noise Of drawers, 'prentices and boys Hath left us, and the clam'rous bar Items no pints i' th' Moon or Star; When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors, To fright us with forgotten scores; And such aged long bills carry, As might start an antiquary; When the sad tumults of the maze, Arrests, suits, and the dreadful face Of sergeants are not seen, and we No lawyers' ruffs, or gowns must fee: When all these mulcts are paid, and I From thee, dear wit, must part, and die; We'll beg the world would be so kind, To give's one grave as we'd one mind; There, as the wiser few suspect, That spirits after death affect, Our souls shall meet, and thence will they, Freed from the tyranny of clay, With equal wings, and ancient love Into the Elysian fields remove, Where in those blessèd walks they'll find More of thy genius, and my mind. First, in the shade of his own bays, Great Ben they'll see, whose sacred lays The learnèd ghosts admire, and throng To catch the subject of his song. Then Randolph in those holy meads, His _Lovers_ and _Amyntas_ reads, Whilst his Nightingale, close by, Sings his and her own elegy. From thence dismiss'd, by subtle roads, Through airy paths and sad abodes, They'll come into the drowsy fields Of Lethe, which such virtue yields, That, if what poets sing be true, The streams all sorrow can subdue. Here, on a silent, shady green, The souls of lovers oft are seen, Who, in their life's unhappy space, Were murder'd by some perjur'd face. All these th' enchanted streams frequent, To drown their cares, and discontent, That th' inconstant, cruel sex Might not in death their spirits vex. And here our souls, big with delight Of their new state, will cease their flight: And now the last thoughts will appear, They'll have of us, or any here; But on those flow'ry banks will stay, And drink all sense and cares away. So they that did of these discuss, Shall find their fables true in us.
Tyrant, farewell! this heart, the prize And triumph of thy scornful eyes, I sacrifice to heaven, and give To quit my sins, that durst believe A woman's easy faith, and place True joys in a changing face. Yet ere I go: by all those tears And sighs I spent 'twixt hopes and fears; By thy own glories, and that hour Which first enslav'd me to thy power; I beg, fair one, by this last breath, This tribute from thee after death. If, when I'm gone, you chance to see That cold bed where I lodgèd be, Let not your hate in death appear, But bless my ashes with a tear: This influx from that quick'ning eye, By secret pow'r, which none can spy, The cold dust shall inform, and make Those flames, though dead, new life partake Whose warmth, help'd by your tears, shall bring O'er all the tomb a sudden spring Of crimson flowers, whose drooping heads Shall curtain o'er their mournful beds: And on each leaf, by Heaven's command, These emblems to the life shall stand Two hearts, the first a shaft withstood; The second, shot and wash'd in blood; And on this heart a dew shall stay, Which no heat can court away; But fix'd for ever, witness bears That hearty sorrow feeds on tears. Thus Heaven can make it known, and true That you kill'd me, 'cause I lov'd you.