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Then with a grievous groan!
and voice both hoarſe and dry
Farewel, quoth ſhe, my lovely friends
for I this day muſt die!
The meſſenger of death,
with golden trump I ſee,
With many other angels more,
which found a call for me.
Instead of muſic ſweet,
go ring my paſſing bell,
And with ſweet flowers ſtraw my grave
that in my chamber ſmell.
Strip off my bride’s arry
my cork ſhoes from my feet,
And gentle mother be ſo kind,
as to bring my winding-ſheet.
My wedding-dinner dreſs,
beſtow upon the poor,
And to the hungry, blind & lame
that craveth at the door.
