LXVII

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,

And wash my Body whence the Life has died,

And in the Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,

So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

LXVIII

That ev’n my buried Ashes such a Snare

Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,

As not a True Believer passing by

But shall be overtaken unaware.

LXIX

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

Have done my Credit in Men’s Eye much wrong:

Have drown’d my Honour in a shallow Cup,

And sold my Reputation for a Song.

LXX

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before

I swore — but was I sober when I swore?

And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand

My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.