1.

Thou mayst be proud, & bee thou so for mee
Yet knoe there is a death for me & thee.
When my Salt teares, in akorne cupps shall proue
A Balme for wounded Loue
Whyle broken Sigh's in Silkeworme baggs vpbound
Sadd reliques of my dying heart are found.

2.

Death will putt out those Iewells of thine eyes
Which now deride both Indies, & the skies,
Thy daintie flesh in softer frailtie, must
Be lost in blended dust.
No herald then to trick or blaze thy birth
Thyne armes & thy Supporters all of earth.

3.

And when Imperious fate shall lay thee by
To mixe with myne, thy Limbs will not be shie
Nor in cold blood thy brest, or other Part
At losse of honour start,
Nor will the Charnell house, our equall shrine
Make neat distinction; twixt thy bones & myne.