Classic Poem

To CASTARA,

Being to take a journey.

What's death more than departure; the dead go
Like travelling exiles, compell'd to know
Those regions they heard mention of: Tis th' art
Of sorrowes, sayes, who dye doe but depart.
Then weepe thy funerall teares: which heaven t' adorne
The beauteous tresses of the weeping morne,
Will rob me of: and thus my tombe shall be
As naked, as it had no obsequie.
Know in these lines, sad musicke to thy eare,
My sad Castara , you the sermon here
Which I preach o're my hearse: And dead, I tell
My owne lives story, ring but my owne knell.
 But when I shall returne, know 'tis thy breath
 In sighes divided, rescues me from death.

To CASTARA,

Being to take a journey.

What's death more than departure; the dead go
Like travelling exiles, compell'd to know
Those regions they heard mention of: Tis th' art
Of sorrowes, sayes, who dye doe but depart.
Then weepe thy funerall teares: which heaven t' adorne
The beauteous tresses of the weeping morne,
Will rob me of: and thus my tombe shall be
As naked, as it had no obsequie.
Know in these lines, sad musicke to thy eare,
My sad Castara , you the sermon here
Which I preach o're my hearse: And dead, I tell
My owne lives story, ring but my owne knell.
 But when I shall returne, know 'tis thy breath
 In sighes divided, rescues me from death.