"Draw near, you lovers"
di Thomas Stanley (1625-1678)

Draw near,
You lovers that complain
Of fortune or disdain,
And to my ashes lend a tear,
Melt the hard marble with your groans,
And soften the relentless stones,
Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide
Of all Love's cruelties and beauty's pride.
No verse,
No Epicedium bring,
No peaceful Requiem sing,
To charm the terrors of my hearse;
No profane numbers must flow near
The sacred silence that dwells here.
Vast griefs are dumb, softly, O softly mourn,
Lest you disturb the peace that attends my urn.
Yet strew
Upon my dismal grave
Such off'rings as you have,
Forsaken cypress, and sad yew,
For kinder flow'rs can take no birth
Or grow from such unhappy earth;
Weep only o'er my dust and say, "Here lies
To Love and Fate an equal sacrifice."