A plague on Egypt's arts I say.
Embalm the dead — on senseless clay
Rich wines and spices waste!
Like sturgeon or like brawn shall I,
Bound in a precious pickle, lie,
Which I can never taste?

Let me embalm this flesh of mine
With turtle fat and Bordeaux wine,
And spoil the Egyptian trade.
Than Humphrey's Duke more happy I:
Embalmed alive , old Quin shall die
A mummy ready-made.