Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine <br />That which makes thee a rich mine: <br />Remember yet, 'tis but a loane; <br />And wee must have it back, Her owne, <br />The very same; Marke mee, the same: <br />Thou canst not cheat us with a lame <br />Deformed Carcase; Shee was fayre, <br />Fresh as Morning, sweete as Ayre: <br />Purer than other flesh as farre <br />As other Soules than Bodies are: <br />And that thou mayst the better see <br />To finde her out: two stars there bee <br />Eclipsed now; uncloude but those <br />And they will poynt thee to the Rose <br />That dyde each cheeke, now pale and wan, <br />But will bee when shee wakes againe <br />Fresher than ever: And howere <br />Her long sleepe may alter Her <br />Her Soule will know her Body streight, <br />Twas made so fitt for't. Noe deceite <br />Can suite another to it: none <br />Cloath it so neatly as its owne.<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/her-epitaph/
