A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick

136. TO ANTHEA

     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 reliques shall have room;
     For my embalming, Sweetest, there will be
     No spices wanting, when I'm laid by thee.