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Poem	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 wrapped 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.
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