Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

AH, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see

Me, day by day, to steal away from thee?

Age calls me hence, and my grey hairs bid come

And haste away to mine eternal home;

’Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,

That I must give thee the supremest kiss;

Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring

Part of the cream from that religious spring,

With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;

That done, then wind me in that very sheet

Which wrapt thy smooth limbs when thou didst implore

The gods’ protection but the night before.

Follow me weeping to my turf, and there

Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear:

Then lastly, let some weekly-strewings be

Devoted to the memory of me;

Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep

Still in the cool, and silent shades of sleep.