| John Donne (1572–1631). The Poems of John Donne. 1896. | | | | Epicedes and Obsequies upon the Death of Sundry Personages | | Elegy on Himself |
| | | MY fortune and my choice this custom break, | |
| When we are speechless grown to make stones speak. | |
| Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thou | |
| In my grave’s inside seest what thou art now, | |
| Yet thou ’rt not yet so good; till us death lay | 5 |
| To ripe and mellow here, we’re stubborn clay. | |
| Parents make us earth, and souls dignify | |
| Us to be glass; here to grow gold we lie. | |
| Whilst in our souls sin bred and pamper’d is, | |
| Our souls become worm-eaten carcases, | 10 |
| So we ourselves miraculously destroy. | |
| Here bodies with less miracle enjoy | |
| Such privileges, enabled here to scale | |
| Heaven, when the trumpet’s air shall them exhale. 1 | |
| Hear this, and mend thyself, and thou mend’st me, | 15 |
| By making me, being dead, do good for thee; | |
| And think me well composed, that I could now | |
| A last sick hour to syllables allow. | |
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