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Put on your silks, and piece by piece Give them the scent of ambergris; And for your breaths, too, let them smell Ambrosia-like, or nectarel; While other gums their sweets perspire, By your own jewels set on fire.

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 relics shall have room. For my embalming, sweetest, there will be No spices wanting when I'm laid by thee. Holy oak, the oak under which the minister read the Gospel in the procession round the parish bounds in Rogation week.

I dreamed we both were in a bed Of roses, almost smothered: The warmth and sweetness had me there Made lovingly familiar, But that I heard thy sweet breath say, Faults done by night will blush by day.